Running
by Miss Charz
Summary: *SEQUEL TO 'TRAITOR'*. Cammie's back. The problem? Her friends think she's dead. But, then again, why would they care? They hate her.
1. Funeral

**Why, hello again.**

**Yep, it's me! And this is your sequel. (Hopefully it'll be good!)**

Just letting you know now that I probably won't be updating much until around mid January or early February 'cause of Christmas and all. But I promise I'll be writing it down on paper and editing it ** That way, when it comes time to update, you'll get more chapters!**

**Anyway, please review and tell me what you like and don't like!**

**DISCLAIMER:: Hmm, I'm pretty sure I'm not Ally Carter… And because I'm not, I don't own anything. Officially **_**disclaimed**_**. (Or, as official as I get)**

As I stand, leaning against a thick-trunked, shady tree, I can't quite grasp the weird feeling that accompanies watching my own funeral.

Many people wonder who would actually turn up to their funeral when they die. Now I know. Many people also wonder who would cry at their funeral. I know that now, too. And the answer is no one. Though, I think I might have known _that _for a while.

Why? Well, there are two reasons: Once, the people I know are spies. And spies don't cry, save when it's necessary.

The second reason is the simple fact that no one cares for me anymore. Maybe people used to, but that was before I completely messed up my life.

It's been six months since I wrote that letter and three months since I delivered it to Zach's apartment. Yeah, it took me a whole three months to psych myself up into potentially seeing Zach again. After all, I didn't want to make things worse (if that was even possible).

And, as I watch the gloomy proceedings and the eleven people that actually turned out, I remember the day, one week ago, that I 'died'.

_The morning was frosty and bitter, just as unforgiving as any winter's day in Canada._

_I sat on the window ledge, looking out over the small street where the house I was currently residing inside sat. I didn't stir as a person entered my room; I just kept my gaze on the serene surroundings. _

"_Hey," she said, in her delicate tone. "Are you ready?"_

_Only then did I turn and give her a weak smile. She was such a kindly person, and the similarities between us were quite scary, actually._

_She had the same, forgettable blue eyes as me, the same dirty-blonde, long hair, and we were very nearly the same height. When wearing my clothes, she could easily pass as being Cameron Morgan. The only problem was our DNA; she was Melanie Hibbard and _not _Cameron Morgan. _

_But I knew ways around that. I had connections with people in the CIA morgue, who, whether or not they despised me, would do me favours because I have helped family of theirs._

_Nodding slowly to her, I slid off the windowsill and landed silently on the dusty carpet._

_Just proving her kindliness even further, Melanie had offered me a room, in exchange for a pitiful rent, at her father's apartment block. _

_As much as she hated him, his money came in handy to her._

_But the one thing he couldn't buy back was her terminal illness diagnosis. _

_She had a brain aneurysm which neither medication nor any amount of surgery could make disappear. _

_I was always impressed by her ability to keep cool and collected, even when she knew her life would be cut short so soon._

_But I suppose that's how it is for every single living being. Only most of _their _deaths weren't so imminent. _

_Even with this illness, she had agreed to help me take down a powerful mobster – unrelated to the Circle of Cavan – who was planning an attack on the CIA, who had rebuilt its HQ and upgraded its security tenfold._

_However, not many people would survive the direct missile strike intended for them._

_So, in order to save my friends, I was going to take him, and all his connections, out._

_Giving Melanie a determined look, I nodded gently and she returned a slight grimace._

_Only a couple of weeks ago, after I'd found out about the CIA attack, she had discovered who I was and what I did for a living. In a moment of weakness, I told her everything. _

_And Melanie had agreed to help me blow up the five top-secret headquarters. _

_Over the past few weeks, we'd infiltrated them and planted undetectable bombs which would detonate once the right digits were pressed into a gadget which hung around my neck. _

_The only problem was that we couldn't do it one by one. They all had to go off at the same time, lest another base realise what had happened and protect itself._

_But we still hadn't place the last bomb. _

_Melanie walked forward and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. "We've got to do this. You can stay behind I you want, but someone has to stop them," she told me, her voice firm and understanding. _

_I shook my head. "No, I want to do this. I _have _to do this for my friends."_

_Melanie didn't back down. "I can handle it, you know. You've taught me well how to use a gun, and I know the digits. Besides, if only I go, only one of us can be killed!"_

_She was right, the bomb didn't have any guarantees on how long the delay was, but we estimated it would be about ten seconds. _

_I still wasn't chickening out of our plans. _

"_No, honestly, Mel, I really need to help. I owe them that much."_

_Melanie smiled, but unlike my smile, hers was gorgeous. I still couldn't believe she had something in her brain which was almost literally a ticking time bomb. _

_The drive to the fifth, and final, base was a silent one. We both knew the plan; we knew the layout, the security measures and how we were getting in. _

_But we weren't sure if we would come _out_.  
_

_Mel cut the ignition and we prepared ourselves for the cramped crawl through the ventilation shafts._

_While I unscrewed the grating, which was hidden behind dying bushes, Melanie kept a watchful eye out for guards or anyone who might blow our cover. _

_With a sigh of relief, the last bolt fell to the dirt and I pulled away the metal grating and leaned it against the wall._

_Making sure my gun was conveniently place in the waistband of my black pants, I squirmed into the shaft, thanking my lucky stars that I had barely eaten in months, and for that reason I was almost abnormally thin. _

_I heard Melanie follow after me, as I came up to the first fork in the shafts. Thankfully, we'd memorised the exact route to the centre of the building. _

_Left, straight, left, right, right, straight, left, right._

_As we dropped down into a cluttered room, I honestly couldn't believe how pathetic this mobster's security was. Sure, it was one of their less important bases, but still. Although, we had heard rumours, also, that they were celebrating another successful 'mission' somewhere else. _

_Stupid gangs. They might've been good at doing actual hits, but they were awful at security. _

_I let Melanie do the honours of placing the bomb, all the time wondering how on earth we would escape the building in ten or so seconds. _

_Once the small – but incredibly powerful – bomb was ready, I pulled the device which would detonate it, and four others, from around my neck and flipped it in my hands. _

"_You should get out of here, Mel. We've got to hurry," I whispered to her, but she looked firm. _

"_If anyone must do it, it should be me."_

_Rolling my eyes, I hissed back, "Are we seriously arguing about this _now_?" _

_But our little disagreement was cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the other side of the door. _

_Taking advantage of my brief distraction, Melanie grabbed the detonator from my hands and shoved me to the door. _

"_Why don't we both run? That way we can activate it once we're both safe," I argued, resisting her. _

_Melanie began to get annoyed. "You know perfectly well that it works better in a ten foot radius, and we can't afford anything to go wrong. Plus, what if they caught us? Who'd detonate it then?" _

_Nodding sadly, I stopped struggling, but immediately tensed as the footsteps became very prominent outside the door. _

_Just as I drew my gun, it burst open and in flooded three armed men. _

_One aimed for Mel and fired. But I couldn't be sure where it hit because I was too busy dodging bullets myself. _

_I fired shot after shot, and two made contact, causing the recipients to fall down. _

_As I threw myself to the floor, I saw the detonator lying not 30 cm from my hand. I snatched it up and punched in the first three digits. _

_6 – 9 – 2_

_But I never got to the fourth, because someone dragged me upwards, causing me to scream in pain. _

_I saw Melanie stir slightly on the floor and felt a tiny bit relieved. _

_Kicking my attacker backwards, I made a scramble for the door, but the huge good stood in my way._

_He raised his gun and pulled the trigger, the bullet hitting my arm, causing the detonator to spin away and land near Melanie. _

_Fighting against the immense pain of yet another bullet wound, I clambered up, aimed my own gun at the guy and shot him directly in the forehead. _

_From the floor, I heard a weak voice yell hoarsely, "Cam, run! I'll detonate it, just run! More are coming, please go, Cam, _please_!"_

_I gave her a desperate look, but I knew she was right. More guards and hit men were coming out way. _

_Mel had picked up the black device and was ready to press the last number. She gazed at me and whispered, "Run."_

_So I did. I ran through the headquarters, dodging, punching and shooting whenever necessary. Just as I jumped through a window, I knew that ten seconds were up; that Mel had pressed that little '6' and blown up five mobster bases._

_An enormous explosion erupted behind me and heat and shattered glass scorched my back, but I remembered Mel's last words to me… run… and I did. I kept running. _

_Later that day, Alicia Burnell, CIA head of Body Identification and Assessment, received a phone call from a phone box in Austria. In this call, it was stated that she would write on her official report that Cameron Ann Morgan had been killed that morning in an explosion. _

_When Alicia asked why on earth she'd do that, she was told it was a favour being called in by none other than Cameron Morgan herself._

_Alicia said no more. Her dearly beloved Grandmother was alive and well – not to mention her five-year-old niece – because of that woman. _

_She would do anything asked of her. _

_And so, Cameron Morgan was pronounced dead. Time: 6:28 am, place: Canada._

What alerts me to the fact that the funeral has finished is that the few people who actually came, are now chatting quietly amongst themselves as the priest makes his was back into the church.

Several black-clad figures subtly walk out of the cemetery and disappear back into the world.

But the most important five stand together, all looking tired and hurt.

Zach's back is turned to me, so I can't exactly see his expression, but I can see Liz's.

She's not crying, but her eyes are slightly red, as if she's been holding back from it.

But she's _there_; Liz is _there_, Macey's there, Zach's there, and Grant's there, heck, even Jonas is there.

Only, Bex _isn't_.

The one I've known the longest isn't there, and that hurts me deeply.

Although, neither is my mother, which is just like another blunt knife to the heart.

Liz and Macey drag Grant and Jonas over to a small, black car and pile inside, leaving Zach standing alone, gazing down at 'my' headstone.

For a second, I almost think I see him raise a hand to his face and wipe away something, but I'm probably imagining it.

As if instinct to reach for him kicks in, I step forward from my hiding spot by the thick trunk of the tree, but my foot lands on a twig and it cracks.

It may as well have been a gunshot.

Zach's head whips towards me and his eyes widen. I stumble backwards behind the tree again.

I can't bear it. I can't bear him seeing me again; it only brings back all the hurt. I can only hope that the shadows disguise me enough; that he doesn't recognise me.

And, once again, I follow the order of a dear, brave friend of mine and I _run._

**Good? Bad? Completely horrible? **

**Tell me, please. I would love to hear your opinions **

**So… Yeah that's chapter one all done. **

**I'm struggling a bit with chapter two, but it'll get done. **

**I'm leaving on holiday tomorrow or the day after (I can't remember) so chapters won't be that frequent. But I'm promising lots in the New Year. **

**Okay, so have a Merry Christmas, and keep safe! Oh and a Happy New Year.**

**(If you celebrate those sorts of things!)**

**Cya,**

**~Jenna**


	2. A new friend, perhaps?

**Sheesh, it feels like I haven't updated in a while. I'll try to keep the author's note short(ish). **

**Just to let you know, this chapter was originally very, **_**very **_**different. It wasn't even Cammie's point of view or anything, but I got stuck on it and it annoyed me so much I'm grounding it for a while until I can find a place that it fits in the story. Don't worry; it'll be in here somewhere in the future, just in a different way.**

**DISCLAIMER: Umm... yeah, Ally Carter will give up the rights to me around about the time I actually learn how to not burn water.**

As I run, I have this strange desire to be actually running towards a home – _my home._

But, a real home is something any spy – let alone one who's hated by everyone she knows, and even some she doesn't – knows is a rare luxury.

Sure, many spies have house or apartments, but, due to their occupation, rarely spend enough time there to _make _the place a home.

My heart beats furiously beneath my chest as I sprint past cars and busy Christmas shoppers.

Not wanting to attract unwanted attention, I slow to a steady walk.

All I can do is hope that Zach didn't recognise me, otherwise everything will unravel. I can't risk him seeing me again, so perhaps it would be better if I leave the country.

Unsure what to do next, I let my feet carry me down an empty street.

It's a pretty place. Usually-shady trees – when it's not winter – line the edges of the road, and humble, old buildings sit side-by-side, looking inviting and warm.

But as I reach a peachy-coloured, double-story house, my reflexes are put to the test as an elderly lady steps out of her front door, right into my path.

Although I avoid any contact by sidestepping quickly, the old woman is so startled that she drops the boxes she's carrying, sending their contents flying.

And, okay, I know spies are supposed to be heartless, but something about her warm, wrinkled face fills me with pity.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I gush, bending down immediately, grasping at the small photos fluttering all over the sidewalk

But she just gives a kind smile. "Don't be, dear! I really should pay more attention on where I'm going."

Once all the photos are returned to the brown, cardboard box, I apologise again.

Mrs Patricia Hemley, as her name turns out the bed, waves away my apology.

"Oh, dear, honestly it doesn't matter. But you must come inside and join me for a cup of tea! My way of saying sorry."

Although I know I really should find a place to stay for the night (aka, a cramped, dank alleyway), I long to relax and put my feet up, not having to worry about anything.

As we enter her house, I know there's only one word to describe the whole place – _cosy_.

A fire dances merrily off to the right, around which three, squashy, deep-red couches sit. A small Christmas tree sparkles festively by the window, where a cat is curled up on the window-seat.

Photos of – who I presume to be grandchildren – line the hallway walls. They stare down from their dark frames, smiles frozen onto their faces.

The kitchen is tiny, but somehow Mrs Hemley seems to fit perfect in the house, as with the rest of her house.

It all seems to suit her personality.

Once we've both got a cup of tea in front of us, Mrs Hemley begins her interrogation of me.

"What's your name, dearie?" she enquires, taking a sip of the sickly-sweet tea.

"Emily Frankfurt." The name simply slips from my mouth, and, strangely, I feel bad for lying to this kindly old woman.

But Mrs Hemley doesn't notice my lie. "How old are you? Surely someone as young and as pretty as you should be somewhere with family enjoying the festive season!"

I smile, almost grimly. "I'm twenty-one, just had my birthday a few weeks ago. And, no, I don't have any family. It's just me."

Mrs Hemley laugh and leans forward, and a golden key-necklace slips from beneath her shirt and dangles in front of me, her frail hand patting my arm. "Don't you fret, dearie, join the club."

I'm surprised. "What? There's no Mr Hemley? No grandkids?"

She shakes her head, gray curls bouncing. "No, no, Arnie passed away years back, and we never had children. All my other family are dead."

"Who are the photos of in the hall, then?"

"It's a long story," she sighs. "I always wanted children, but Arnie never had the same feelings. He was such a thoughtful, quiet man. He gave me this," she says, gesturing to the necklace. "I asked what it opens, and all he replied was '_It unlocks the deepest secrets_'. He always was very cryptic."

I smile sadly. "That reminds me of someone I once knew," I murmur, but I don't think she hears me.

"Anyway, what about you? No boyfriend or fiancée?"

My throat constricts and my grip on the teacup tightens. I shake my head. "No, I'm not exactly the dating-type, Mrs Hemley."

"If you're going to stay in my house, you're to call my Patricia. 'Mrs Hemley' makes me feel _old_."

I think I've misheard. "I'm sorry, _live here_?"

Patricia casually pours herself a second cup of tea and places the pot down gently. "Why, of course! I'm getting rather lonely, and besides, I get the feeling you need somewhere to call home for a while."

Glancing down at my filthy, faded red jumper, I think back to my whole 'I-want-a-place-to-call-my-home' train of thought earlier, and suppress a smile.

"I'm a stranger to you, yet why do I feel as if you've known me forever?"

Patricia throws her head back and laughs. "We are kindred spirits, my dear!"

I grin at her and say, "Well, if it's not too much trouble for you, one night would be okay."

Patricia nods, and pushes herself up out of her chair. "Come on, then. I'll show you your room."

That night as I snuggle into the comfortable bed upstairs, I dwell upon the fact that having a bed all to myself instead of sleeping out on the streets on the cold, hard pavement is _so _much nicer.

**Okay, kind of short, and a little bit of a 'filler.'**

**You honestly wouldn't believe how many times I wrote and rewrote this. Every single time I finished it, it didn't seem a good enough standard, so I wrote it again. **

**Yes, I'm a perfectionist. **

**Ah, well. Hope you liked it **

**And please don't kill me for not updating in so long! Please **_**review**_**!**

**~Jen**


	3. They're going to kill him

**Ahh, I have this idea for a long one-shot in my head, but I'll feel guilty if I don't update this one first…**

**And no one better steal my idea lol. Do you know how many times I've thought of something and then someone else has already done it! Haha it's so frustrating!**

**And it happened just now. **

**Okay, tell the crazy girl to shut up and write.**

_~Back at the funeral~_

"Zach, hurry up. Macey wants to get home." Grant's voice makes Zach jerk his head away from the tree.

He's stunned. _Was that…? No… _he thinks to himself. _No… she's dead. Get over it. Get over her._

"_Zach_, mate, get in the car!"

But Zach doesn't respond; he has half a mind to chase after the person by the tree. Whoever it was.

Only when Grant walks over the him and places a hand on his shoulder, does Zach reply faintly, "Uh… yeah, I'm coming."

Grant interprets the vagueness wrongly. "Man, I know you two had a thing and all," he says, looking down at Cameron Morgan's headstone, "but she betrayed us, and 'us' includes you. Maybe you should start getting over her."

_Yeah, right, _scoffs Zach, in his mind, _Get over her. _

Grant has to physically drag Zach into the back of the car, because he refuses to budge.

Liz, who frowns at Zach and laces her fingers together, says, "You've been acting odd for months, are you sure there's nothing wrong? I mean, apart from what happened at the CIA." 

_Oh, I'm perfectly fine. It's just that three months ago, a certain Gallagher Girl left me a note that's intended for all of us, but I haven't told you guys yet, and when I do tell you, you all will kill me.. But apart from that, I'm great._

By the time Macey stops the car at Zach's place, he's ready to slip a napotine patch on all of his friends. Their questions started to get rather uncomfortable about three-quarters of the way home.

Once he's unlocked the many locks to his apartment door, Zach unconsciously takes out Cammie's letter. By now, he's memorised it all, but something about seeing her familiar handwriting brings him comfort. Although she's gone, he feels as if she's speaking directly to him.

Out of all Cammie wrote to him – and the others – that one sentence has been etched into his brain and, no matter how hard he tries, it won't go away.

_Thank you for letting me fall in love with you._

She _loves _him. Or, at least she _did_.

And Zach loves her back. Although, he never though anyone could love someone as much as they hated them, but that's exactly how he feels about Cammie. He hates what she did – and what she turned into – but deep, deep down, he loves her for being _her_.

Even though he hasn't forgiven her for betraying him and his friends, he knows – or thought he knew – Cammie, and _that_ definitely wasn't her.

Giving a tired, audible sigh, Zach places down the letter, taking in, once again, the way it's coloured yellow, and how it smells less of the street and rubbish, and more like Cammie.

He places his head in his hands, knowing he's going to have to tell his friends sometime. Picking up the phone, he dials McHenry's home number, because he knows that they're staying with her tonight, all except for Baxter, of course.

"Speak." Zach laughs at her commanding tone.

"It's your dream come true, and he wants to know—no, _needs _you to come over right now."

He can almost hear her rolling her eyes. "Ugh, no way, you're not my type."

"_God_, no, McHenry." Zach cringes at the thought of it. "I need _all _of you to come over. I need to tell you guys something."

"You're pregnant?" she jokes.

"I'll see you in ten, McHenry."

And then he hangs up.

_Now, the more difficult call… _Zach thinks.

Whilst dialling Grant's number, he sincerely hopes that Rebecca Baxter doesn't pick up. But, because he's a spy, he knows that hope doesn't get you far. "Hello?" Bex sounds exhausted, like she's been crying for a long time.

"Um, yeah, hi Rebe—I mean, Bex. Can you and Grant come to my place right away?" Zach asks, scratching his neck.

She sighs, definitely not in the mood to argue. "Whatever…"

And then she hangs up on him.

_~Nine minutes and forty-three seconds later~_

Everyone's crammed on the couch, whilst Zach paces in front of them.

"Get on with it, man, I need to check on my prototype," Jonas says, looking at his watch.

Frowning, Zach begins, knowing full well he probably won't be alive by the time he finishes. "Okay, you see, the thing is… Igodalettafromcmanihavn'textlytldyou." It all comes out in a huge rush.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… slow down and rewind. What did you say?" 

After a deep breath, Zach repeats, "I got a letter from Cammie three months ago and I sort of forgot to tell you. It's addressed to all of us…"

Silence descends upon the room, until Macey screams. "You arsehole!" and launches on top of him.

It takes everyone to pull her off him and force her into her seat again. She's red-faced and huffing, super annoyed. "Where is it?" she asks forcefully.

Zach almost flinches, but he reaches over to the table for the letter and flourishes it in front of his friends. "Um, here it is," he tells them, quite unnecessarily.

While all the others cram around Liz, who just snatched the letter away, Bex sits alone, stiff and silent. So Zach turns his attention to her. He walks over and sits beside her, but soon regrets it because he has absolutely no idea what to say.

But he's saved from starting the exchange by her saying, "Are you glad she's dead?"

**I know, I know and I'm sorry **

**I'm gonna start writing the next chapter up now okayy :D**


	4. Visiting

**{I'm not going to ramble on, because I've finally got out of my dark, not-inspired-two-write hole}**

**(Oh, just quickly, I'm not dead! I just, uh, was busy… *withers under furious stares*)**

Zach is speechless. "_What_?" he finally chokes out.

But Bex doesn't bat an eyelid; she remains stony. "Are you glad she's dead?"

This is definitely not how Zach wanted to start a conversation with her. "Uh…"

But he's saved, yet again, from answering by Grant saying, "Whoa, she was _in love_ with you?"

Macey gives him her '_duh'_ look, and says, "Of course she was, Grant, but then she had to go and be a little bitch and betray us all."

Liz looks down at her tiny feet, tears forming in her eyes. Jonas walks over to her and places an arm around her shoulder, and with a comforting squeeze, she gives him a smile.

Once everyone's read the letter – well, almost everyone – they sit perched at various places around the room, chatting quietly. And only when Liz speaks up, does Zach come out of his reverie. "So who's going to tell her parents? Or, well, her mum and Solomon…"

Everyone looks at each other, not knowing what to say. Grant says, "I vote that Zach should do it. He is, after all, the one who kept the stupid thing from us for months."

"No, what about Liz? She's good at breaking news to people." 

"Are you saying I'm not?" asks Macey menacingly.

"No, no… well… kind of…" But before she can attack Jonas as well, Bex stands up and says quietly, yet firmly, "I'll do it."

Everyone turns to stare at her.

"Are you sure, Bex?" Liz asks in a hushed voice.

Not looking entirely certain, she nods slowly. "Yes, I want to." 

After she's got her coat and gloves on, she refuses Grant's offer of a ride, and, instead, catches a taxi. The remaining five watch her ride out of sight, and then talk quietly amongst themselves.

"Do you think she'll be alright?" Liz murmurs, rubbing her arms to generate heat.

Grant nods. "Yeah, she's tough."

After a few more minutes, the group go their separate ways, leaving Zach all alone. He heads back into his place, and slumps down on the couch, his head in his hands.

With an exhausted sigh, he closes his eyes and falls asleep.

Zach wakes up a little while later, completely disorientated. Though disorientated, he knows what he wants to do; he knows where he wants to be, so he grabs his coat and keys, and then heads out the front door again.

The trip to the cemetery doesn't take long, but Zach's almost dreading it the whole way there. He changed his mind two blocks away from his apartment, but knew he shouldn't turn back.

He lets his feet carry him towards her grave, because although he's only been there once before, he's memorised the path already.

The cemetery is completely void of anyone visiting family members or loved ones, and, although he's a spy, it creeps him out a little.

Zach stands at the foot of her grave and reads the brief words carved into the plain headstone.

_Here lies Cameron Ann Morgan_

_Who died at age twenty-one._

Twenty-one… so young…

Little does Zach know that Cameron Morgan isn't dead; in fact, she's very much alive, off somewhere in the world, doing well. Little does he know that the person buried in the grave is not the girl he thought he would spend the rest of his life with.

But because he is oblivious to all of this, he remains there for a long time, just staring.

When a bird's caw snaps him out of his trance, he decides to take a look at the graves beside hers. 

Off to the right, lies a four-year-old girl.

_Sophie Janet Parkinson: aged four_

_Beloved sister, daughter and friend,_

_Will never be forgotten by the ones who love her. _

_She died far too young._

'_If tears could build a stairway_

_And thoughts a memory lane_

_We'd walk right up to heaven  
and bring you home again'_

To the left of Cammie's grave there are an old couple, both buried in the same lot.

Zach lets out a small smile at the picture which someone has lodged underneath a pot plant. It's of a blissfully happy, grey-haired couple, who are both wearing Christmas hats, and waving glasses of wine around.

He wonders where in the world his father is buried, and what actually happened to him.

But Zach knows full well that there are some things in life that you'll never know.

**Ugh, sorry, I really don't like this chapter…**

**And sorry for my disappearance. Just not in the mood for writing, sorry!**

**And I'm not going to be able to update for a few days because I'm going on holidays, **_**again.**_

***sigh*, but when I get back, I'd be much more likely to update if I had lots of reviews ~hinthint~**

**Ah, thanks for bearing with me!**

~Jen


	5. Tails

***Cowers in shame***

**I'm AWFUL sorry! I'm **_**so**_** ashamed right now.**

**Please, guys, kick me next time I take this long to update! (Thanks to The-Gallagher-Girl-Zammie for making me feel guilty! – But in a good way, so that I would update :P)**

If you ever want to go on the run, allow yourself three months to get used to things.

Why? I'll tell you why.

At one month, you're nowhere near accustomed to a whole new life. You're still waiting for everything to settle down. You're in a completely different environment, meeting different people, going different places. It's all new.

Yeah, two months is definitely better. By no means are you adjusted, but you're on the road there. Perhaps you'll have a job, and a stable place to live at. You're probably making more and more friends, and getting used to the idea of leaving everything you had behind.

So, I think you can see why three months is best. In twelve weeks, friends are made and secured, if you're a spy, like I am, you'll know your way around like the back of your hand, you know where the best places are to shop, eat, hang out at…

So that's what I've done; I've given myself three months.

A surprising amount of things have happened in those three months.

Patricia practically forced me to stay in her spare room, even though I insisted I could find somewhere else. I found a reasonable-paying job at a local café, as a waitress. I even looked into some college courses, but not too seriously, seeing as I knew my 'old life' would come back one day. I couldn't run forever.

So now I'm simply sitting in my room – _my room… _it's so great to say that – reading through some pamphlets on cooking. Sadly, I inherited my mother's _'skills'…_

It's a strange feeling being normal, or as normal as I get. I never actually thought that I, Cameron Morgan, daughter of MIA Matthew Morgan and Rachel Morgan, could be _normal. _But, then again, everyone from my old life presumes that I'm dead. I suppose that helps.

"Emily!" Patricia calls from downstairs. "We're out of milk; could you run to the shops and get some?"

See? A perfect example of something weirdly normal.

I put down the pamphlets and yell back, "Sure! I was just about to go for a run, anyway! I'll get some on the way back."

She says something indistinctly, and I slide off my bed to get changed. I pull on my favourite blue running shorts and a white shirt and pick up my sneakers. They're a new pair – and are that first-day-of-school white – that I bought with my first wages from my job.

Any money I've had before now has felt tainted, probably because it's been stolen, given to me by others, or earned in ways I don't even want to think about. And, thus, whatever I have bought with it feels dirtied and just… _wrong._

I pull on the sneakers, too, and bound down the stairs, waving a cheery goodbye to Patricia, who's making strawberry jam on her tiny stove. She gives a kindly nod and then returns to her cooking.

Out the front door, the world is calm. We live quite a distance from any main roads, so traffic is rare, apart from the occasional friendly neighbours. The trees that line the streets, that were, only a few months ago, plain and bare, are laden with beautiful purple flowers. Not being a flower-expert, I can't tell you what sort they are, only that they make me fill with pride every time I see them.

My sneakers crush the dead petals which litter the sidewalks, as I break into a run.

The morning is cool, and the bitter air bites at my exposed legs, arms and face, but somehow I don't mind it.

I run towards the centre of town, waving joyful hellos at anyone I recognise. A chubby man named Andre, who owns the local grocery store, chuckles at me and waves one of his prized cauliflowers my direction, so I decide to stop and chat.

"How are you, Andre?" I reflect on how nice it is to have friends.

"Ah, Emily! I am good! But I have not seen you in a long time; I feared you were ill!" he booms back.

Sure, it's weird having people call me a name that isn't mine, but I'm used to it. After all, I had plenty of weirder covers as a spy.

"Oh, no, I've been feeling just fine." I give him another smile. "Patricia says to tell you that she's sorry she hasn't been around in a while. Come to think of it, she's been quite busy lately."

Andre twirls his small goatee, and raises his thick, black eyebrows. "Oh? What with?"

"I have no idea, actually."

After chatting with Andre for a few more minutes, I continue my run, checking around for any tails, because old habits die hard.

There's a lady pushing a pram; an old man arguing with his friend over a bet; a guy about my age getting into a flash car. And that's what stopped me; _no one _in this town owns such an expensive thing.

My heart rate quickens, and I push myself to go faster. Deep breaths don't calm me down much. I notice the car doesn't follow, but I know, if they're smart, they'll have other people following me. That's if anyone is actually tailing me.

I turn the corner into a deserted street, and realise too late it's a bad move. Deserted street equals fewer witnesses. Before I can correct my mistake, someone clothed in black jumps into my path and lands a blow to my face.

Instinctively, I throw up my arms and block all of their punches. Whilst they're trying to knock my legs out from underneath me, I chop at their neck with one palm. My attacker gasps for breath, and turns purple when I punch them in the stomach. They keel over and lay motionless on the pavement.

Quickly, I bend down and rip off their mask. It's a woman I've never seen before in my life. But I can tell she's not a good guy. There's a strange tattoo on her neck, depicting a dragon curled around a sword. Underneath it, in Chinese, there is a name; 'CORTER.' Somehow I doubt it's someone's name.

But I don't want to stay around to find out what _her _name is. I drag her behind some scratchy bushes and slap a Forgetful Napotine patch on her forehead, which means she won't recall any of the morning's events.

I sprint back into town and dart through the ever-growing crowd, hoping my tails will lose me in it. I pull my hair out of its pony-tail, so that if they're looking for a neat hairdo, they won't find it on me.

It takes me half the morning to be sure that no one is following me. I can only hope they don't know where I'm staying. I return to Patricia's house, out of breath and shaking.

Without answering her questions, I dart upstairs, questions and worries plaguing my brain. The main two seem to be; who is out for me, apart from the obvious? And, should I move out of Patricia's house?

Eventually, I come to the decision to stay a couple more days with her and then move on to somewhere else. I _really _need a shower.

I pull off my white shirt and throw it on the striped duvet, fanning my face. Pushing my hair back, I walk into the small bathroom across the hall and splash it with some cool water. As I straighten up and wipe my face dry, something in the corner of the room catches my eye.

I whirl around, standing at the ready to attack. But then I tense and my mouth drops open from sheer shock.

"_Grant?"_

**Ah, cliffy! Sorry, guys, you really don't deserve a cliffy. But I had to. **

**Perhaps I'll update another chapter again today…**

**A couple of days ago, I got this brilliant (if I may say so) idea for where this story is headed. And, trust me; it'll be better than 'Traitor'...**

**Once again, I apologise for the late update. I appreciate all your patience and reviews.**


	6. Luke?

"Hey, Cam…" He gives me a half-smile.

I'm still gaping like a fish. _"Grant?"_

"Err, do you want to sit down?" he offers, gesturing towards my room, and I nod, still dazed.

"What are you doing here?" I splutter, once we're safely locked in my room, him perched on my bed, me by the chest of drawers.

Grant shrugs and looks around the room. "Nice place."

"Don't change the subject! Where are the others? They're not _here_ are they?" Yeah, three months out of the spy world and I've turned into a spluttering idiot.

Grant looks kind of uncomfortable now, and that's when I realise I'm sort of not wearing a shirt, so I blush and open the drawers and pull out a blue tank top, and pull that over my head.

"Well, the others don't know I'm here, and as to _why _I'm here… well… you'll find out soon enough," he finally replies, scratching his neck.

I growl at Grant and stride towards him. "No," I say menacingly, "you're going to tell me NOW, or else I'll set the little lady, who lets me stay here, on you!"

"Well, there are people after you…"

I roll my eyes and turn away impatiently. "Does that include you? And when are there _not _people coming after me?"

"But this time there's more than one."

I spin back around to face him, furious. "Are you saying there's more than one international terrorist organisation after me?"

Meekly, he nods and I let out a sigh of frustration. "And I've come to save you."

I shoot him an irritated look and run my fingers through my hair. "Sorry, but I don't need a Prince Charming."

Grant laughs. "I'm not your Prince Charming. And, no, Cam, I'm not going to take you to him."

Grant doesn't need to elaborate on who '_he_' is, because I know anyway. "I'm not afraid of him. But, one quick question, how come you're not digging my eyeballs out, right now?"

He gives a shrug and picks up one of Patricia's many picture frames, and shuffles it from one hand to the other. "Because I know the truth. I have many contacts… good and bad… and they've told me everything that happened; right from the start."

I stare at him. "And you believe it all?"

"Do you want me to?"

Keeping silent, I walk over and sit next to Grant. For some reason, I place a hand on his shoulder, and say, "Thanks, Grant. It means a lot that someone believes me." I hesitate for a moment. "Are the others okay?"

He seems to be thinking, but finally replies, "Yeah… apart from the fact they think that you're buried under the ground. Bex is mad… I'm not sure about Macey… Liz is pretty much distraught… but Zach still loves you, if that's any consolation."

With a sad smile, I remove my hand. "Thanks Grant…"

"You already said that," he points out.

"Are you hungry?"

"Cam… when am I not?"

"Fair point."

As we head downstairs, I fill Grant in about my life since he last saw me. He laughs at the fact that I have a waitressing job, so I push him down the rest of the stairs.

Patricia, who's still in the kitchen, looks over at the two of us and her eyes widen. "Emily, who's this handsome young man?"

"Err… well—" I begin, but Grant cuts me off.

"We're old friends. I thought I'd drop around and visit her. We haven't seen each other in years."

I raise my eyebrow at him, and then walk over to the pantry. I pull out the tin of biscuits. Yeah, I've gone from secret spy to cookie-baker… a little sad, yet heart-warming at the same time.

The best thing is Grant's expression as he bites into a choc-chip one. He splutters, "When did you become all domestic-y and learn to cook?"

Patricia butts in before I can reply. "Oh, Emily here has been taught by me!"

Grant shoots me an amused look. "Yeah, well, it's just that _Emily _wasn't really a top chef when I knew her last."

"So did you two ever date?"

I snort into the drink I was about to take a sip from, as Grant's eyes widen. "Oh, well, Em missed out on a lot. Including me. We've always just been friends."

He smirks as I shoot him a look.

"I don't think I got your name, dearie," Patricia said, gathering up the used plates.

"Oh." Grant looks at me again. "Luke. Luke Davis."

"Well, it's nice to meet you Mr Davis."

"You, too."

Patricia insists – as she did with me – that Grant stays the night. But I get a surprise when I walk into my room after I finally have my shower and see her setting up a mattress on the floor.

"Um, Patricia…?" I begin, not really knowing what to say.

She just gives me a toothy smile. "Your friend will sleep in here, dearie."

And then she leaves me to deal with Grant alone. I frown as he comes in, and laughs at my pyjama shorts. "Nice…"

I simply shove him onto the mattress and slide into my own comfy bed.

"Hey!" he exclaims indignantly. "I'm the guest, I should get the bed!"

"Nananana, you're so immature, Grant!" I tease back.

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, _I'm _immature?"

I laugh and throw a pillow at him, hard, and he cries out, "Oof!"

"Don't think you haven't gotten out of telling me everything, Gra—I mean, _Luke._"

He snorts, and replies, "Wouldn't dream of it."

I lie awake for a while, thinking over everything that happened today, and wondering what the future will hold.

Just as I'm about to fall into a welcomed sleep, a loud, fake snore practically _shakes _the room.

"GRANT!"

**Yay, second update in a day ****Just because I love you all so much. In a non-creepy way.**

**And I'd love you even more if you reviewed ;)**

**Thanks to Carah for guilt-ing (and inspiring) me into updating again! :D**

**(Carah is the-Gallagher-Girl-Zammie – so check out her stories! They rockkkk)**

Ta ~Jen


	7. Terminated

**Aha, another chapter coming your way! I was going to update sooner, but my body was like "RAWR **_**let me sleep, dammit!**_**" Well, you know, not **_**literally, **_**but ugh I dunno.**

So… are you going to tell me now?" Let me say, never bother trying to get information out of Grant, he's like a rock.

"Nope." He doesn't even glance up from the laptop.

"Tomorrow?" I'm hopeful that he'll crack sometime soon, because I'm growing impatient.

"Nuh-uh."

"Next Christmas?"

"Not even then."

I almost scream in frustration. "I'll tell Patricia that you pee on your socks." Nothing. "I'll tell her about that time you fell in all that mud and then got arrested."

"What time?" he asks, still fixated on the computer.

"I dunno. I'll make it up," I retort, picking at my nails. "I'll tell her we're married, but you ran off with some Drag Queen from Belgium and left me broken hearted."

Grant snorts and finally looks away from the screen. "You think she'd believe that?"

"Perhaps… It's worth a try."

Shaking his head, he turned away from me again, muttering to himself.

I shuffle through some bills and letters I've received lately, but never got around to opening, before putting them all aside and taking out a photo of Melanie and me, arms over each others shoulders, both holding melting ice-creams, with huge grins on our faces. "Grant? Do you know who's really in 'my' grave?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Not really… no one ever told me her name."

My heart pangs at that. "What? She wasn't important enough? She's the best friend anyone could ever have! Her name was Melanie Hibbard, and she definitely didn't deserve to die. Not for me, not for anyone!"

A little startled, Grant moves away from the laptop and pats my back awkwardly. "I'm sure she was… lovely…"

"You don't get it, Grant!" Tears are beginning to leak from my eyes. "I miss her!"

He nods sadly, and says slowly, "Have you ever wondered what happened to my parents?"

Slightly shocked, I glance at his face, to see that it's holding back pain. "Yes…" The word comes out as a soft whisper.

"Well, me too." He gives me a sad look. "All I was ever told was that they gave me up to Blackthorne when I was young, because they didn't want a son. Can you imagine what it feels like to not be wanted?"

"I know what it feels like, Grant."

Crikey, we're a sad pair.

"Dinner!" Patricia's shrill voice reaches us from downstairs, as we stare at each other, at a loss for words.

Eventually, Grant jerks his head and says, "Let's go. She'll probably drag us by ours ears if we're not there soon."

Nodding in agreement, I follow him down, staring at the back of his head and wondering what's going on in that mind of his. It must've been awful for him to just be dumped by his parents at some spy school and never be contacted by them again.

"Chicken Pesto!" I laugh at Grant's enthusiasm.

A few hours later, I sit alone in my room while Grant has a shower, staring up at the ceiling. I wonder what his purpose is inbeing here. Is there something he needs from me? Is he going to rat me out to the CIA?

All I know is that he is up to something, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it.

When he comes back from his shower, I pretend to be asleep so that he doesn't feel the need to talk. Usually the two of us have that 'comfortable silence', but after what I've been thinking about, I have the feeling that that silence won't be so comfortable. I'd bound to ask something stupid.

Morning comes quickly, and Grant decides he wants to see me working. He's still teasing me about being so 'civilian-ish'.

As I wait for him to come down from my bedroom, I look at all the photos of children in the hallway. But one in particular catches my attention. He's a young boy, about seven or eight, with dirty-blonde, scruffy hair and mischievous blue eyes. Something about his picture draws my hand to caress the frame.

Frowning, I try to think of where I've seen this man before. He seems so… familiar.

But I'm shocked out of my reverie by Grant bounding loudly down the stairs, causing my hand to knock the picture off its hook.

It clatters to the floor, and the actual photo bursts from the frame. I bend down, cursing Grant, and that's when I notice the red, harsh writing on the back of the photo.

_TERMINATED_

In shock, I drop the thing again, shivers running down my spine.

Quickly, I stand back up and turn to Grant, my expression horrified.

"Grant, grab your things! We've got to leave, _now!_"

I'm thankful that Patricia is spending the day with some friends. This means that we can pack quickly without being interrupted by her.

Grant follows my panicked orders, completely confused. "What's happened, Cam? Why are we packing?"

I know he deserves an explanation so I tell him about what I saw. Comprehension dawns on his face as I mention the part where I saw '_TERMINATED' _scrawled across the back of the photo.

When all the necessities are packed, we hurry out the front door. But just as Grant's about to close it, I rush past him and run back into the hallway.

There's an empty cardboard box lying next to a small table which holds the telephone, so I snatch it up and start piling the picture frames into it. The second the last picture frame is dropped into the box, I scramble back down the hallway towards Grant. He pushes me into a car he's stolen and jumps in the driver's seat.

With one last look back at the house, Grant steps on the accelerator, causing the car to jump forward and me to be pushed back into the seat.

He drives around the town as if he doesn't know where he's going; like he's lost, but I know better. He's shaking off any tails we possibly might have.

"Cam, there's a gun under your seat. Take it out and get ready to fire behind us."

Shocked, I reach a hand under my seat and feel the cold metal of a large gun. I pull it out and check that it's loaded.

I turn around in my seat and realise that there's a shiny blue Mercedes coming after us.

"Ready? Aim it!" he calls out, twisting the steering wheel so the whole car lurches into a side-street. "Fire!"

I obey his commands and aim it right at the driver. As soon as he says the word 'Fire', I press my finger down on the trigger and feel the shock of the bullet travelling at nearly nine-hundred metres per second. The first shot shatters the back windscreen, and the second shatters theirs.

Shooting at such a distance, let alone with the car lurching and turning unexpectedly, is incredibly difficult, but I remember my training and focus as hard as I can.

I raise the gun again and take aim. I can practically see the angry, blood-thirsty face of the other car's driver, but it doesn't stop me. Calming myself, I pull the trigger again. Relief sweeps over me as I see the car veer off to the side, but not before the passenger fires two shots at Grant and me.

One flies directly above my head, but the other slams into my upper arm.

Have you ever been shot before? I have. And, boy, does it _hurt_.

Grant shoots me a look of worry as I clutch my arm, but I scream at him, "Keep going! Don't stop, there could be more!"

He drives wildly for another fifteen minutes, before we arrive at an abandoned shack.

Groaning and still clutching my bleeding arm, I unbuckle my seatbelt and collapse out the door. Grant helps me upright and practically carries me towards the shack.

He kicks the door open and rushes over to the carpet in the middle of the room. Kicking it aside, he reveals a trapdoor which he pulls open and begins to climb down.

"Follow me."

Still in agonising pain, I follow him down the ladder and emerge in an almost pitch-black room. I only notice the elevator when Grant jerks his head towards it and says, "After you."

When we're inside, the pain is pushed aside by sheer confusion about where we are.

"What is this place?" I choke out. "Where are you taking me?"

"Welcome," Grant says as the doors slide open, "to HQ."

**Ooh, I completely changed my idea for where this story is going. Originally I was going to have Cam helping the gang on missions, but I couldn't help but get this feeling that that plot wouldn't go anywhere.**

**Plus, there are already other authors who have written about that sort of thing. **

**My new plot is entirely new **** (I'm really hoping, anyway)**

**And I'm gonna try update soon, and it should be easier because now I only have, like, two stories to work on because 'You've Got to be 'Kid'ding has finished *sniff*.**

**~Jen**

**(Oh, and check out my profile for a challenge – if you want one)**


	8. Intros

_It's been a while, so…_

_Onwards!_

_

* * *

_

"A little help over here?" Grant calls out, as I collapse on him from loss of blood.

I don't have much time to take in my surroundings, before I'm carried into a very clean, white room that smells of antiseptic.

The last thing I remember is someone shoving a needle in my arm, and professional, unfamiliar faces hovering hazily above me.

When I wake up, Grant is wrapping gauze around my wound.

"Hey," he says, sticking the end bit on with a piece of tape.

Rubbing my head groggily, I sit up slowly. "Hey…"

He's about to call for someone, when I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. "Where are we, Grant? And you better damn well tell me right now or else I'm going to be seriously pissed off."

I don't feel like playing games right now.

Amused, Grant turns back to me with a smile playing at his lips. "I see the anaesthetics haven't dulled your temper very much."

As I frown at him, he rolls his eyes. "We're at a top-secret location."

"And…?"

"And, what?" He looks confused.

Frustrated, I ask, "So, what do you do here? What are you called? Who's in charge? Does Bex know about this? Why are we here?"

Grant's eyes widen a little as I throw all the questions I can think of at him. He looks around the medical room as if he's trying to find someone to save him from answering. "Uh…" He clears his throat. "So many questions, Cam, and so few answers."

"You're as bad as bloody Zach! Tell me now!"

"Fine, fine. We're called the Cincta."

"Sounds better than _'Top Secret Association Working Against Evil Without Almost Anyone Knowing.'_"

"Yeah... we figured we needed a name. Anyway, what else did you want to know?" He pauses. "Oh, right, Bex... doesn't exactly know about this." He waves a hand around us.

Grant smiles sheepishly as I give him a reproving look. "Doesn't she wonder?"

"Yeah… but I change the subject or tell her something else."

"So you lie to your girlfriend?" I can't believe him.

"If she knew, she'd kill me, okay!" he bursts out, running a hand through his hair.

Seeing as his tone is one that doesn't want to discuss the matter any more, I repeat another question. "What do you do at this place, then, that makes it so dangerous?"

After glancing around the room, he leans a little closer. "The only people who know about us, _are_ us. Sure, the CIA has suspicions, but we're too well hidden for them to find anything. They think I'm taking time off to… uh… relax." Grant says the word like he doesn't know what it means. "But, in reality, what we do here is _so_ much more important than what the NSA, CIA, and the rest of the alphanet do."

I persist. "But _what _do you do?"

"Oh, you know, save the world. Simple things like that." Grant shrugs, sitting back in his chair. "Well, let's just say that ridding the world of drug and arms dealers is child's play to us."

I nod, about to question him further, but am cut off by a very buff, tanned man walking through the infirmary doors. And he's about fifty.

"Newman! You're back with us, I see! And you've brought a lady-friend!" he booms, clapping Grant on the back as he stands up.

I can see Grant hold back a wince. "Yeah, this is Cam. Cam, this is Lerner. Robert Lerner. He's in charge here."

Robert Lerner shakes his greying hair and looks at me. "Morgan? Ah, another good soul. What happened to your arm? Newman clearly doesn't know how to look after his friends."

I bristle at that. "I don't need someone to look after me." My voice is as hard as steel, as I stare coldly at him.

But Lerner simply roars with laughter. "Of course you don't, missy. You're a Morgan!"

Turning to give Grant a look, I see that he's holding back a laugh at my expression. I roll my eyes, resisting from whacking him, hard.

"Gunshot wound, sir. Her third one in… what… a year?"

Shooting Grant an annoyed look, I hear Lerner say loudly, "So, Morgan, living life dangerously, are we?"

Not sure what to say, I shrug and slide off the white-clad bed. "So when do I get my tour?"

Lerner gives Grant a stern look. "You haven't shown her around the place, yet?"

A few minutes later, Grant leads me out the infirmary doors, saying, "So, HQ is pretty big. We've got two labs, dorms in case we need to stay overnight, a main information room, computer lab, uhh… offices, and yeah there's a few more, but they're not so important."

Nodding to show I understand, I ask, "Who are those two over there? Why does that guy have a Brazilian flag tattooed on his back?"

Laughing, Grant replies, "It was a dare. And that's Sam King. He's thirty-eight and buffer than Spiderman. His code name is Sandy, obviously because of his hair. That woman he's talking to is Lee-Ann Chon. She won't tell anyone her age, but we guess she's roughly twenty-six. Her parents moved here from China just before she was born."

I look at the pair. Lee-Ann is tall with short, black hair which has a blue streak running down her fringe. She looks very _pointy _and thin.

"Who are they?" I ask, gesturing towards a pair sitting at a computer, arguing over something, as we pass the room labelled, '_Computer Lab'._

"Ricky and Mike, the resident twins. They're super smart… even smarter than Jonas or Liz."

Surprised, I notice their similarities. Jet black hair. Weirdly light-blue eyes.

Grant moves on through the enormous complex, pointing out rooms here and there. "That's Henrique. He's French, but you know that. We like to get foreign people involved in the Cincta."

Henrique is actually very good looking. He's quite short though, not that any normal person could tell while he's sitting down.

"So… where are we staying tonight?" I have so many questions, but I like to get to know things before I trust them.

Gesturing around, Grant replies, "Here." And then he adds, "Well, you are. I have to get back before Bex gets too suspicious."

"You're not going to tell them, are you?"

"No, Cam. It's better if I don't. We need your help right now."

"And what exactly do you need help with?" I enquire as we enter another room, lined with technology and beeping electronic maps and monitors.

Grant turns around to face me and grins. "This."

* * *

_Yeah, a little long since I've updated, but I haven't been in the mood. It would seriously make my day if you review _

_I know, I know, I shouldn't say it but I'm going to. Six reviews for chapter seven? *sadface*_

_Meh, if you wanna review, please go ahead and do so. It seriously makes my day when you guys do. But I have a teensy challenge for you._

Write a review with at least two CONS of my story so far. Seriously. Diss the shit out of it.

_{And yes, I have spelling/typo mistakes. I am aware of it. It is the elephant in the room.}_

_Ta, ~Jen_


	9. Whoa?

_**Right… the majority of my readers seem to be:**_

_**-BORED OUT OF THEIR MINDS.**_

_**-Confused**_

_**-Annoyed**_

–_**Unsatisfied**_

–_**Hating me for leaving cliffys.**_

_**Thanks loads for all the reviews, and honesty! Never will I be annoyed at someone for speaking their mind. So if there's something you need to get off your chest, please, tell me about it either in review or PM. Or you could just stalk me and find my house and ask me about it.**_

_**Uhh, so… just so you know, I'm going to seriously try and write more details into this chapter. Please give me a loud BOO if I fail [: {Oh, and this hasn't been beta-ed by my new beta **__XxXMoeGanXxX __**(so, a huge sorry to her for not sending it first, I just wanted to update because I haven't for a while!)**_

_**Onwards.**_

'This' turns out to be an electronic map of the world.

Actually, it's a pretty large map of the world. The screen – which I estimate to be _at least _six metres by four metres – covers one wall, showing nothing more on it than the outline of the countries of the world. There aren't any legends, labels, colours, or anything that distinguishes something important on it.

"Grant?" I begin, my eyebrows scrunched together. "I know I passed COW pretty well, but seriously? I don't think I'm the best person to tutor you…"

Slightly exasperated, he nods to a raven-haired lady, who's standing by a wooden podium, holding a small, matching remote. When Grant gives the signal, she presses the blue button with one perfectly-manicured finger.

The woman's action causes the screen to light up with seven different colours, each colour outlining a continent. I watch as North America turns a deep green, South America goes light-blue, Antarctica floods a pretty purple, Australia fades into a delicate yellow, Europe turns pink, Asia bleeds into a dark red, and Africa glows a vivid orange.

More confused than ever, I turn to Grant, who gestures again at the lady with dark hair. Again, she presses that blue button. This time, six black circles appear at various points on the map; but with no more than one to a continent.

Only Europe doesn't have a black circle.

"Uh, are these targets, or something?" I enquire, slowly lowering myself into a chair.

Shaking his head, Grant walks forward and stops at the edge of the screen. He waves a hand at the whole thing, saying, "This, I think you've gathered by now, is a map of the world." I roll my eyes. "There are seven continents." I scoff, and roll my eyes again. "And six black circles."

Does he think that I'm stupid?

"Thankyou, Captain Obvious, now could you explain _what you need my help with?_"

He simply shoots the raven-haired lady an amused look, but it immediately slides off his face as a loud voice says behind me, "Wipe that smirk off, Newman, and tell the lady what's going on."

I withhold a laugh, and turn to see Lerner walking towards us, his scarred, rough arms folded.

Grant clears his throat and turns back to the screen. "Cam, you know how I told you about all those people after you?"

Nodding slowly, I reply, "Yeah… More than usual, you mean?"

"Well, they need something from you."

"And what would that be?"

Before Grant can explain, Lerner butts in. "We should tell her what our latest project is first, Newman."

"Right…"

"And by '_we'_, I mean _you._"

I can tell Grant has to resist from rolling his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Perhaps because he knows Lerner could totally take him down if a fight ever broke out.

"So you see these black circles?" Grant points to the six of them as I nod. "Well, we have a suspicion—"

"More than a suspicion. We _know,_" the remote-lady cuts in, walking over to Grant.

By now I'm ready to rip the answer from their throats. Is it so hard to tell me something? "Guys, just tell me already!" My patience is wearing thin.

As the remote-lady steps forward, I see that she has a nametag on her crisp, white blouse, which reads 'Amelia.' Grant lets her take over his position by the screen.

"For years now, there have been an accumulating number of terrorist organisations who want to bring down the world, because that's what they do; they cause terror and chaos. Someone, we're not sure who, exactly – though we do have suspects – came up with a plan – many years ago – to place seven nuclear bombs at strategic points around the earth, making absolutely certain that, once detonated, they would cause as much destruction as possible."

Although astonished, I see now what the black circles are for.

Amelia continues on, her cold, green eyes boring into me. "The thing is, whoever planted them made sure that not just anyone could activate them, so he or she made an eight-digit code. This code is the only thing that can possibly successfully activate the bombs. The problem is it's also the only thing that can _deactivate_ the nuclear bombs."

Amelia glances over at her boss, who is wearing a grim expression on his face.

"And we're close to certain that _you _have that code," Lerner contributes, running a hand through his blonde, shaggy hair.

I splutter. "I've never been given a code! No one ever tells me anything!"

"Ah, but, you see," says Lerner with that grim smile returning to his face, "Your father has been linked to all of this. We believe he may have either subconsciously told you the codes, through, say, a bedtime story, or he could have hidden single digits on your childhood treasures."

Visions of my old, well-loved teddy bears, favourite fairytale books, and jewellery my father gave to me swim in my mind, but I banish them as the sheer ridiculousness of the whole scenario comes flooding back to me. "My father? He's dead! How can you possibly think he would have anything to do with earth-destroying, people-killing bombs?"

Grant strides across to where I sit and places a large, warm hand on my shoulder. Sinking down on his knees to my height, he says, "Well, like Mia said, we have suspects… and Matthew Morgan can be heavily linked to all of them. I'm sorry, Cam."

With my eyes closed, I tell them, "Continue."

"There's a lot of guesswork here…" Amelia sounds hesitant to continue after seeing my reaction. "And all we know is that we have to deactivate the bombs. Once deactivated, they can never be re-activated. I won't go into details, but the total fissionable material is increased so it exceeds the critical mass, which then stops the nuclear chain reaction occurring."

With a slight nod, I show her that I _partially _understand. Hey, I studied PHD level physics and chemistry.

Grant, looking amused, notices that I do not completely understand what Amelia is saying. "Look, even more _basically _than that, something releases this fuel stuff which stops the Big Bad Bomb going off, comprende?"

Laughing, I say, "Thanks, Grant. I didn't realise you could narrow such _complex _matters down into one sentence a _first-grader _could understand."

Lerner claps Grant on the back, and booms, "It's his speciality, isn't it, Newman?"

"So…" Amelia places down her remote, which she has been waving around energetically for the last few minutes, and bites at her perfect thumb-nail. "Any questions?"

"Definitely." I stand up and walk over to her. "If there are seven bombs, why are there only six black dots on the map?"

With a nervous laugh, Amelia glances at Lerner, and then replies, "Well, we haven't actually _found _them all yet. We've, so far, located three, leaving four to find. Three of which we have roughly estimated their locations. The last one we're still working on."

Another pressing question pops into my mind. "How could someone just dig a hole and shove a nuclear bomb into it without anyone else noticing? Surely someone would suspect something if a great big truck pulled up in the centre of a city – because that's where most of those black dots are – with 'WARNING: NUCLEAR BOMB' printed in big, red letters on the side?"

By now, my head is buzzing with all this new information, so I lean against a cold, metal desk and massage my temples.

"That's a good question." Amelia shrugs. "We guess that they are hidden beneath buildings and other structures that have been built in the last few years. This also makes their locations easier to pinpoint. We simply have to check the areas for recent construction sites."

Does this woman have an answer for _everything?_ My arm has started to hurt again, but I ignore it, desperate to know all the facts. "And how on _earth _could the CIA or anyone else not know about all of this? It's a _massive _project. Not to mention the fact that all the organisations will be talking about it, and any spies will be bound to pick up things."

Grant says, "We're not sure. They probably do know, but don't have all the details just yet. We have sources that are very deep in the enemy ranks."

As I open my mouth again, Lerner interrupts. "No. No more questions. Ms Morgan needs sleep. She's just been _shot _if you don't recall. We'll deal with everything else once she wakes up."

I'm about to protest, but stop myself. Judging by the stern look on Lerner's face, and the way his eyebrows are knotted together, I know he's not someone to mess with. And I understand why he's the leader of all this.

Grant takes me by my good arm, and leads me down a few white-walled corridors. We stop at a dark wooden door labelled, 'FEMALE QUARTERS.'

Understanding this is where we part ways, I turn to Grant and give him a smile. "Thanks, Grant. You probably saved my life. Those people chasing us most likely would have slit my throat if I had stayed any longer."

"Hey, you're the one who insisted we leave. Besides, you'd have kicked their asses before they could have laid a finger on you."

Not caring about my arm, I pull Grant into a warm, friendly hug. "Thanks, anyway, Grant. I hope you can get home okay."

He grins sheepishly. "I'll be fine, Cam. I always am. I'll bring in your stuff before I go, and I'll leave it with Lerner. He's the only one I'd trust with it. You can ask him for it in the morning. Now, I'd suggest you sleep, before he comes and knocks my head in for keeping you awake."

With one last hug, I wave a small 'goodbye', before turning the cold, metallic doorhandle and walking into the room.

As I snuggle into the strangely comfortable, squashy bed, my mind tries to comprehend the enormous task ahead. But the last thing on my mind before I drift asleep is a certain guy who I miss more than anything, and who thinks I'm dead.

_Whoa, Information overload!_

_Uh, kind of a lot of science-y stuff in there. Sorry about that. I thought it might add some detail? If you hated it, please tell me. _


	10. Mysterygirl

**Just letting you know that I'll write my notes at the bottom of the page from now on ~ unless there's something really important I need to say!**

"Where the _bloody hell _have you been?" screeches Bex, her brown eyes narrowed in dislike as Grant walks through the front door.

He surveys her for a moment, standing with her hands on her hips, knowing he's in some deep trouble.

"Uhh, _out_?" is all he replies with before walking past her towards their bedroom, knowing Bex won't give up that easily. She notices he wears a concerned expression on his face.

"Don't think you can just _walk away from me_! Where have you been for two days?" He winces at the fierceness of her voice as he runs the tap in the bathroom, and splashes his face with cold water.

When Grant doesn't respond, Bex drags him upright by his blonde hair and slams him against the wall. "Where. Have. You. Been?" she snarls, her face just inches from Grant's.

She lets out a scream of frustration as he shrugs. After an intense pummelling session, Bex lets Grant go, and he rushes back into their dark bedroom. For just an instance, he regrets letting Bex decorate it. After all, Grant Newman – top of his P&E class, as well as official King of all arm wrestles – does not _do_ purple_. _Or flowers. Or half a million pillows. Or window-seats.

He changes into a pair of boxers and slips underneath the covers. Bex frowns at him, her arms crossed firmly and her caramel-coloured eyes narrowed. "We're not done with this," she informs him, before whirling back around into their en suite bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

While the shower is running, Grant slips back out of bed and shoves some clothes into a rucksack, along with some money and his best gun.

By the time Bex climbs in next to him – and curls up as far away as possible – Grant's pretending to sleep; even adding a light snore for effect.

Once Grant is sure that Bex is asleep, he very slowly climbs out of bed, careful not to disturb her. He walks across to his phone and pulls on some dark clothing; a pair of jeans and a black shirt.

In the kitchen, Grant dials a number on his phone and presses it to his ear.

He probably would have got away with it all unseen, except for the fact that Bex is awake. She, like her boyfriend, was only pretending to sleep.

Bex tiptoes across to the bedroom door and presses her ear against it. She can hear muffled conversation, and only picks up snatches of it.

"…_me there. Lerner knows the address…"_

"_No… she's asleep…"_

"…_do it, okay?"_

"…_need to talk! ...discuss what's going on."_

It's safe to say, Bex's spy side was on red alert. She rushes over to the chest of drawers and pulls out a pair of black jeans, and a grey hoodie. After pulling her knotty, brown hair up into a pony tail, Bex creeps out into the kitchen, where she sees Grant checking through his bag.

Hiding behind the kitchen counter, Bex wonders whose spy-skills are better. She can only hope that Grant doesn't notice her. Mind you, she's so furious that he's sneaking out to meet someone – perhaps another girl – that she almost doesn't care. Bex just wants to kick him where it counts, and drag a sufficient answer from him.

When Grant's blonde head disappears out the front door, Bex follows like a shadow, her mind still in overdrive as to what's happening.

She's thankful that he doesn't take a car. If he did, she would be far more noticeable when she was following him. Instead, he turns down the street, making sure to keep in the shadows.

Bex checks her watch. 10:56PM. Who could he possibly be meeting this late at night?

Keeping a close eye on Grant, she makes sure her feet make no sound on the cracked, concrete pavement. The gates of other houses in the city provide some shady patches. Any spy knows to use their surroundings to their full advantage; to adapt.

As Grant reaches a white townhouse and jumps the gate at number sixty-eight.

As he knocks on the black, chipped door, Bex crouches behind a dense, green shrub, peering around at her boyfriend, and envisioning the millions of ways she will torture and kill him, all the while, still noting everything about the moment.

The door opens, but Bex can't get a clear view of the person because Grant's bulky frame hides most of them. Though she can't see much, Bex determines that the person meeting her boyfriend at such an ungodly hour is a female by the curved figure and bundle of dirty-blonde hair.

Before Bex can see or hear much more, the unknown female pulls Grant into the apartment, whispering, "_Why the hell are we here?" _

_That, _thinks Bex, _is an excellent question, mystery-girl. _

_

* * *

_

Although Bex didn't take the time to put on her favourite, chunky, silver watch before she followed Grant, she knows that he and mystery-girl have been inside the townhouse for approximately six minutes and thirteen seconds.

Upon sneaking around the back of the place, Bex discovers and open window.

_Too easy, _she snickers to herself.

Once inside the dimly-lit place, Bex notices that there isn't any sultry music playing, only hushed voices cutting through the silence.

Bex sneaks past the mahogany staircase, silently thanking the decorators of the house for deciding to put in carpet instead of wood.

She reaches the room where the voices are emanating from and stops at the scratched door. Pushing her knotted, brown locks behind her ears, Bex leans against the door in the hope that she'll pick up some of their conversation.

"…_are you here, Grant?" _That sounds like the girl. Bex can't help but notice how familiar, though muffled, her voice sounds.

"_I realised when I got home that I hadn't really asked you how you felt about all this…"_

All _what? _Is Grant cheating on Bex with this mystery-girl?

"_You didn't need to check up on me. I'm _fine_."_

Bex can tell that mystery-girl is a strong, independent woman. She knows why Grant would choose someone like her.

"_Well… I felt bad… I _feel _bad. You've had it rough for so long, and now all this save-the-world stuff is being forced on you! How are you _'fine' _about all that?"_

Bex can almost see mystery-girl roll her eyes. She knows she would too.

"_Hey, like I said, I'm fine about all of it. I'm tough. Anyway, it's not me you should be asking, it's Bex." _This startles Bex. How does mystery-girl know her? _"She's the one you're lying to. I still think you should tell her; trust her. She's an amazing person. I don't doubt she knows you're gone by now."_

Bex has started warming up to mystery-girl. She seems to be on Bex's side. Not sure she can take any more Bex slowly turns the knob on the door, waiting to open it but wanting to hear her boyfriend's response first.

"_Look, Bex is strong, as well. She knows that - with our profession – our lives are full of secrets and lies. Besides, she's at home in bed, not suspecting a thing."_

As her anger boils over, Bex pushes the door open to see Grant and mystery-girl sitting opposite each other at a table, their hands linked.

Mystery-girl's back is facing Bex, so all Bex can see is that curtain of oh-so-familiar dirty-blonde hair.

Coldly, Bex says, "Wrong, Grant."

The two at the table jump apart and the mystery-girl whips around. The last thing Bex sees before she faints is the very pair of blue eyes she never thought she'd see again.

**Right, kind of short. And un-beta-ed. My beta hasn't gotten back to me about the whole DocX thing... So, if you're reading this, Moe, it'd be great if you could! *smile***

**Um, hope you liked the chapter. Yeah. Again, it's boring-ish. I'm just kind of hitting a rut in the story. I _sort of _know what I want to happen, but yeah... So, any ideas are welcomed, just PM me and I'll _maybe _use them. :]**

**For now, adios amigos. (Apologies if that's incorrect. As many of you know, I'm rather awful at other languages)**

**~Jen**

**P.S. I'm not one to demand reviews, but I do love logging in and seeing I've got - say - fifteen for one chapter :]**

**P.P.S I'm going to make the next chapter longer! Hopefully. And with some action! Yaaay. No? Okay.**

**~J**


	11. Hawaii

Have you ever had your best friend – or, _ex_-best friend – try to strangle you? Have you ever felt her soft, but incredibly firm, hands clasp around your cold throat and tighten so you see stars? Have you ever had to try to breathe in mouthfuls of oxygen whilst she screams hysterically at you and her boyfriend tries to drag her off?

No. I don't suppose you have.

By the time Grant pulls Bex away – with a little help from a new friend of mine– I'm on the cold, white floor of one of HQ's several infirmary bedrooms, spluttering and almost unconscious.

Chris – my new friend – leaves Grant to try and calm down Bex, and strides across to me.

"You okay?" he asks, crouching down to my height with that lop-sided grin forming on his handsome face.

Weakly, I nod and prop myself up on my elbows. "I was just sitting by her bed, and then she woke up and launched herself on me."

A shiver runs down my spine when Chris – who I've grown a slight crush on – places one comforting hand on my shoulder and gazes at me with those amazing, dark-blue eyes. And I mean _gazes. _It's like he's looking into my soul.

"Are you sure you're okay? Need some water?" he questions, frowning slightly.

Again, I nod and give him a small smile. Chris helps me stand up, and I lean against him, still catching my breath.

Before he can drag me out of the antiseptic-smelling room, and away from Bex, I catch a glimpse of her narrowed, brown eyes directed at me, and something in my heart drops. It seems as if she still hates me.

Out in the hall, Chris makes me lean against the wall while he gets me some water. I watch his tall, lean figure disappear around the corner and I break into another smile for reasons I don't quite know.

Later, when things have settled down a little bit, Grant and I slouch onto the couches in the recreational room. It's a place where the Cincta people can relax once they've finished working. The room has a flat-screen TV on one wall, which surrounded by couches; there are games in another corner, with a large pool table in the middle, and a stereo in the other corner.

"I knew you shouldn't have got me to meet you at that safe-house," I tell Grant, massaging my throat.

He laughs and rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Now we can tell the others that you're not rotting under the ground."

Shocked – and with a horrible picture of myself dead, with bugs crawling out my eyes, in my mind – I slap Grant's arm and reply, "Thanks for the mental picture, dimwit. And there's no way we're telling anyone else."

"Why not? I never pinned you as a coward."

"_I'm not! _You try facing your friends again when they all hate you, and then find out that you faked your own death!"

Uneasily, Grant looks down at his fingers. "Why have you replaced Zach?"

I gape at him in that attractive goldfish way that I have, and am cut off from replying by someone joining us in the other-wise empty rec room.

"Hey guys," says Sandy, "Bex is on the phone, and Lerner wants you two to meet with him and Ann in Room 225, stat."

With that, Sandy disappears back out the door, leaving Grant and I to stare at each other.

"Why does Bex need to use the phone?"

* * *

Room 225 is like your typical meeting room, with a huge, elliptical, wooden table in the centre and plush, red chairs surrounding it. There's a projection screen set up at one end, while about half the chairs are filled.

Lerner, being the leader and all, is standing beside the projection screen, looking as buff and scarred as ever in a blue t-shirt. To me, he seems incredibly relaxed, considering the _enormity _of the situation.

"Ever been to Hawaii, Morgan?" he asks, not wasting any time with 'Hello's or other formalities.

When I shake my head, he cracks a grin and tells me, "Well, pack your bags. You're going with Lancaster and Newman in forty-six hours. I'll hand you over to Ann to tell you all the details."

Ah, Ann… possibly my least favourite person in the Cincta. Before you get any ideas, yes, she is a 'goodie.' She's just a very _straightforward, _single, middle-aged lady who isn't afraid to tell you if you've got some cabbage between your teeth. In fact, she'd probably take a picture of you first, so that she'd have something to blackmail you with later on. Some would even dare call her bitter.

"Sit down, Morgan. You too, Perms, and Gorilla."

Yeah, she insists on calling Chris 'Perms' because his blonde hair is curly. Actually, it's a toss up between that and 'Lanky.' You see, Chris's last name is Lancaster, and, due to his, well, lankiness, she forced such a nickname upon him. As to Grant's, well… Ann seems to think Grant doesn't have a brain. Which, let me tell you, he _does. _Grant's one of those people – like Zach, I suppose – who uses their intelligence to make sure no one ever knows how smart they really are.

It's quite clever, really. Having that surprise you can fling on someone anytime is actually a good thing in the spy world.

"Now," barks Ann, pacing in front of the twenty, or so, people in front of her, "I've got a list here of all the people going to… _Hawaii. _Personally, I don't know why _anyone _would go there. It's a place filled with ninnies in skirts. You actually have to look closely to see if they're a transvestite or not."

Lerner claps Ann on the back, and she frowns up at him, down her abnormally large nose.

With a slight laugh, Lerner says, "Now, now, Ann… that is an incredibly false stereotype."

Before they can start fighting, I stand up. "Uh, can we get back to the mission?"

After clearing his throat, Lerner replies, "Right, yes, let's get to work. Read out the list, Ann."

"Perms, Gorilla, Thai Girl, Peter Pan, Marc, Jazz Hands, and Camera."

Slumping my head onto my arms, I let out a sigh of frustration. I can only pray that Ann isn't coming with us to Hawaii. "_Hello? Is this the Circle of Cavan's head office? Yes, it's Cameron Morgan calling just to tell you that you really needn't bother coming after and torturing me. We have Ann Cagna on the case, already."_

_

* * *

_

As it turns out, my prayers weren't answered, because, _somehow_, I end up sitting next to Ann on the private jet. The only up-side is that Chris is on my other side, and I can _almost _block out Ann's monotonous voice, telling me how crabby my name is, and how I should start doing more sit-ups, seeing as I've got '_belly rolls_.'

As to why we're off to Hawaii… well, apparently there's a contact there that has a whole lot of information for us as to where these nuclear bombs are located.

Right in the middle of a conversation between Chris and me about our families – in which I learnt that his mother's uncle was a Dutch spy – Ann leans across me, and says drily, "I hope you bought your home-perm kit, Perms. It looks like we'll be away for a while." She lets out a humourless laugh, and then acts like she just remembered something. "You know what, Perms, Camera? I think there's a place in Russia named 'Perm.'"

Chris squeezes his eyes shut and exhales sharply. "Shut _up_, Ann."

When Ann finally leans back in her seat, laughing to herself, I take Chris's hand and give it a gentle squeeze. He opens his eyes and looks at me, a small smile on his face.

"Hey, she's just old and bitter, Chris, ignore her."

Apparently Ann, using her bat-hearing, knows what I said, and replies, "Twenty-eight is not old. Not like those shoes you're wearing, Camera. Elizabeth the First called and she said she wants them back."

Let me just say, it's a long_, long _flight.

* * *

I have no idea why, but Lerner decided it was best if we brought Bex with us, so she's stashed at the back of the plane with Grant, who seemed apprehensive about the whole arrangement when I saw him boarding earlier.

Sitting next to Chris is like sitting next to an encyclopaedia - in a good way, though. I don't know how he fits so much information in his head. I even forget about how uncomfortable the blue plane-seats are as I listen to him telling me all these amazing facts about the French Revolution.

When Ian – or, _Jazz Hands_ as Ann calls him, because of his 'large' hands – comes along the aisle and tells everyone that we'll be landing soon, I know I won't have been able to take much more, anyway. Ann is just telling me about how she single-handedly won World War Two.

I mean, she wasn't even _alive _then. Unless she's a reincarnation of Hitler, or something, which I totally wouldn't put past her.

After we land at Honolulu International Airport, we're picked up by a inconspicuous, grey car, driven by a young woman, and taken to Luxe Beach Resort – an utterly over-the-top place, complete with three swimming pools and four restaurants (though I get the feeling we won't be using them much) – Lerner gives us our room numbers, and assigned roommates.

To my absolute _relief, _I'm not paired with Ann; instead, I'm introduced properly to the gorgeous, Thai beauty, Areva.

Although she has a slight lisp, Areva still seems to be able to enchant anyone with her voice.

We end up having an intense pillow-fight; both admitting it's a draw once the contest reaches the balcony. She's just ordering us both a freshly-squeezed juice via the phone when the doorbell to our room rings.

I raise my eyebrows at her and remark, "Well, that was quick."

I walk over to the door, straightening out my crumpled, deep-purple blouse. With a smile on my face, I open the door, expecting an obedient staff member carrying a tray of heavenly beverages, and, instead, come face-to-face with Ann.

"Oh, God…" I mutter.

"Who is it?" asks Areva, who's straightening the things we knocked around during our pillow-fight.

Ann pushes past me and walks into the room. She eyes Areva with distaste before saying, "I'd suggest you get up, Thai Girl. Camera and you are needed on the mission. They're leaving in ten. Meet in the car park wearing dark clothing, and weapons."

Areva rolls her eyes at me as if to say, _well, duh!_

I bite back my grin and shake my head at Ann. Has she ever said anything nice in her life?

Ann strides back over to the door, but she's not _quite _done with us.

"Oh, and Camera, I'd suggest leaving that blouse behind. It looks like Barney was sick over you. It's just disgusting."

With her last remark, she slams the door behind her, leaving Areva and I to frown at each other, wanting to rip out her throat.

* * *

With the steady rumbling and bumping of the black van, Areva's humming, and the gentle chatter of the four others accompanying us on our mission, I fall into a daze – somewhere between awake and asleep.

By the time the van comes to a halt, and Grant shakes me back into consciousness, I'm ready curl up into a ball and leave saving the world to everyone else.

"Cam, get up. We need to get going," Grant insists, dragging me upright by my forearm.

Only when Chris comes along to help, do I carry my own weight and throw a small backpack over my shoulder.

The six of us trudge through the humid rain, and mud, towards an almost-invisible hut in the distance, hidden by dense foliage. I assume that's where our contact is residing.

"What's his name?" I ask Chris, as he helps me climb over some slippery rocks.

Chris shakes his hair – which is plastered to his head – out of his eyes and replies, "We call _her _Alexandria. We're pretty sure that isn't her name, but she's good at hiding things."

"How is she reliable, then? She could be feeding you false information; we could be walking into a trap!"

"Hey, hey, calm down, she's given us correct information for years. She needs to be secretive to stay alive."

And there's that lop-sided grin again. I'm so distracted by it that I don't see the huge puddle of mud in front of me, and my leg sinks halfway up my calf into it.

"Ugh," I say, pulling it out with a loud '_Schluurp_.'

As Chris and Grant laugh at me, Areva comes over to my side and squeezes my shoulder. "Hey, it could've been your face."

I crack a smile, and we continue trekking along the sodden ground, while the rain continues to pour on us. When we reach the hut, something definitely seems wrong. There aren't any lights on, and everything is just _too still._

"Wait here," orders Grant, pulling out his weapon.

I scoff and hiss back, "No way, you sexist pig. We're just as capable."

Grant shrugs and follows me inside, creeping slowly, our spy senses super alert. Every single noise is assessed. Every single item out of place is weighed up. I hear Areva call from another room, and rush quietly to her side.

Her gun is dangling limply by her side and she's staring down at the twisted body of – who I guess to be – Alexandria. Apparently someone got here before us and put a bullet through her brain.

"Let's get out of here," Grant orders sharply, not bothering to keep his voice down.

And this time I have no objection. But before we can evacuate the place, I notice Areva's no longer behind me.

"Wait!" I hiss at the guys, but I don't think they hear me, so I turn back, alone.

I don't even dare to breathe as I tip-toe back the way we came. I finally reach the room where Alexandria lies, dead, when something cold and metallic is pressed against my back.

"Don't say a word," a menacing voice sneers in my ear.

But he's made the catastrophic mistake of pressing his weight on the gun which is directed at my back. It means he no longer has as much control over his actions. Before he can pull back, I whip around and smack the gun out of his hands, sending it clattering away into a dark corner.

I can only hope the noise alerts the others.

I slam my fist into the man's stomach, causing him to careen backwards, his breath leaving him with a satisfying _whoosh. _But he recovers quickly, and advances towards me, his lethal hands held up in defence.

Whipping out a leg to try and knock his feet from underneath him, I grab onto a heavy vase which is sitting on a nearby dresser. When he finally regains his stance, I fling the extremely heavy thing at his head. He only just ducks in time; the vase smashes at a spot on the wall where his head just was.

My wounded arm throbbing, I parry punch after punch, begging in my mind for the others to help me. I barely have time to worry about where Areva is.

When I land a fierce blow to the attacker's neck and he stumbles backwards, cursing violently, I spot a piece of crumpled paper on the floor and – out of pure impulse – I pick it up and shove it in my pocket.

The man, who seems to be able to repair himself like a robot, advances towards me again with a distorted look on his face. He grabs me by my shirt and slams me against the wall, so, in response, I slam my heels into his stomach.

Thankfully, the others seem to have realised I'm not longer with them, and they come thundering back for me. Chris slaps a napotine patch on my attacker's forehead, and he slumps unconscious in a matter of seconds.

"Come on, we really need to get out of here," Chris tells me, taking up my hand and dragging me forward.

"Wait!" I cry. "Where's Areva?"

"She's waiting outside with our ride."

I feel incredibly stupid. I almost got beaten up for nothing.

We clamber into the van quickly, and the door is barely even slid shut before Areva floors the accelerator and we speed off through the humid, dark, rainy night.

* * *

_So, there you go. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I hope you like Ann. Or hate her. Either way._

_Got any thoughts? Of course you do, you great overgrown ape. Review them to me. _

_Thank you all most dearly. I was so happy - and in the mood for writing - that I just had to update. This chapter is definitely longer than the last. So, tell me, do you prefer long or medium-sized chapters? Longer ones take longer (obviously), and shorter ones would be updated more frequently._

_You'd make my day if you reviewed. Reading a long review [good or bad] is, like, better than ice-cream and cool drink mixed together. I think that's called a spider. Why? I have no idea. Ask whoever invented them._

_~Jen_

_PS How do any of you beta? Do you use DocX or do you do it via e-mail? Or even PM?_


	12. Another plane ride

The second plane ride in twenty-four hours, and I'm planted right next to Bex. The one person guaranteed to make my flight an awkward one.

Mind you, she doesn't seem to mind as much as me. While everyone else has gathered around a table to play poker, I have to make sure Bex isn't a disruption, or puts a knife through the pilot's heart and aims us towards the ground, or something. She has her eye mask on and I'm almost certain she's asleep, seeing as her chest is rising and falling peacefully and steadily.

We've barely said two words to each other since she tried to strangle me earlier.

The minute we returned from the sodden hut, Bex, along with everyone else, was ushered quickly and quietly into a waiting jet. How it got there, I have absolutely no idea. Although I can assume that one of the Cincta's private, billionaire sponsors provided it.

As I stand up from the surprisingly-comfortable leather seat to stretch my legs and get myself a drink, I hear Bex ask, "Can I borrow the phone?"

Unsure what to say, I nod. She's spent a lot of time talking to an unknown stranger on any communication device she can, whilst also pointedly ignoring Grant and myself.

While I pour lemonade from the can into a plastic cup, I watch her curiously, noticing that she looks distinctly disgruntled. Although, most of us do, what, with the lack of sleep and running from the baddies.

Her usually luscious hair now hangs limply over her shoulders, not completely covering the grubby, blue shirt she's borrowing from Areva. But more than anything else, her caramel eyes are droopy and relatively flat, give off the impression that she's more than just physically tired.

Carrying two glasses, I approach Bex quietly. She doesn't seem to notice me, and continues whispering to whoever is on the other end of the black, cordless phone.

"…_fine. Just grab everything you can and meet me there. Don't be late, or else we will have moved on."_

Being a girl, let alone being a spy, my senses perk up. Who's Bex meeting? And _where_? Does she honestly think we're just going to _let her go_?

"_Bloody hell, no! Don't ask, alright? Just trust me. I've got to go. Bye."_

Now Bex has _definitely _got my attention, and I'll be sure to ask her what the deal is.

She slams down the phone and almost jumps when she sees me leaning against the cupboard behind her.

"Has anyone ever told you it's rude to eavesdrop?" she practically hisses at me, tucking her hair behind her ears and shooting me a dirty look.

Frowning, I shove one of the cups I'm carrying towards her. "I think I'm entitled to know who you're calling."

"You're not entitled to know _anything,_ you little liar!"

I barely restrain myself from flinching. Her tone is so harsh and hateful.

"_Excuse_ me?"

"I think you heard me," she retorts, ignoring the drink and spinning on her heel. I watch her storm off back to our seats and slump into the one beside the window.

Outside, all there is to see is darkness. We're probably over some ocean somewhere, so there aren't any lights visible below, and it's still night, although the sun is sure to rise soon.

After following her back to our seat, I slam the cups down onto a nearby table, not caring if turbulence spills them.

"If you've got a problem, spit it out!" I decide I don't want to be too soft with Bex. If she can't understand why I did everything I did, then she can't be much of a friend.

Her dark eyes flash dangerously up at me as I stand over her, my hands on my hips and my expression stony. "A _problem_? You're so… so… _ugh_!" she shrieks, getting to her feet again.

Over my shoulder, I can tell everyone playing poker is listening to our conversation, even though they appear to be intently involved in the game.

"So, _what_?" I ask, with my blue eyes narrowed angrily.

She laughs derisively. "So… _stupid_! You think after everything you've said, after everything you've _done, _that I'm just going to forgive you? That I'm just going to spit out my 'problem' and everything will be okay? Well, I've got something to tell you, _Cameron –_ if that even is your real name! – It's not okay! Nothing is okay! You've made my life hell!"

Bex's words sting, especially as I remember how close we used to be just a few years back, but I don't show her how much they hurt. Instead, I cry back, "You don't get it, do you? I did it all for you! You, your boyfriend, Liz, her fiancée, and Zach!"

Now the tears are threatening to appear in both of our eyes as she replies with a sharp, "How do I know you're not lying?"

I soften slightly. "You don't. You never will. But I thought you, of all people, would be by my side, no matter what. I _need _you, Bex. You're my best friend."

Her eyelids flicker. "I _was_."

That, of everything anyone has ever, _ever_ said to me, cuts the deepest. And perhaps that's why I do the shameful thing of storming off to the toilet, and barricade myself.

Slumped against the wall, I refuse to cry. I hate crying but, most of all, I hate people _seeing _me cry. To me, it's like bearing your soul – your weak side – to the world. And, in my life, that is such a dangerous thing to do. If someone knows your weaknesses, they have absolute power over you.

I don't return to my seat, not even when the pilot asks us to clip on our seatbelts due to turbulence. I can't stand the sight of Bex right now. She doesn't get it, and I thought she would.

Once my little pity-party is over, I stand up from the floor and splash my face with some freezing cold water. It helps me to regain my composure. I'm about to push open the toilet door, when someone else knocks from the other side.

"Cammie, can I come in?" Chris asks quietly.

With a deep breath, I pull open the door and come face-to-face with my favourite person in the world right now.

"Hey," I whisper, not really meaning to be so soft.

He looks at me, concern etched all over his face. "Are you okay?"

"Just peachy."

Frowning, he steps into the tiny cubicle and shuts the door behind himself, causing the both of us to squish together. "You don't have to lie."

"I'm serious, Chris, I'm _fine. _That was just a stupid lapse of self-control. I'm learning to bottle it up," I reply, a faint smile on my lips.

Again, he frowns down at me. "Squishing your emotions down doesn't make them go away."

"Whatever."

"Come and sit down."

With a resigned sigh, I say, "Okay…"

Chris takes my cold hand in his own comforting, warm one and leads me back out of the cramped space. "Go talk to her," he whispers before shoving me gently towards where Bex sits with her head in her hands.

I walk slowly towards her. "I'm sorry," I say quietly.

She reacts immediately. Her head jerks upwards and her body stiffens. With wide eyes, she replies, "I—I'm… sorry, too…"

And I, of all people, know that she means it. After all, Rebecca Baxter doesn't _apologise. _

Slipping into my seat – the one beside hers – I say, "I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anyone. I was doing what I thought best."

After a slight pause, Bex chokes out, "But why- what was that with the Director?"

My hands close into fists at the thought of him. "He… he was nothing. Nothing to me. He was just another Circle agent."

With a gentle nod, she runs a hand through her matted hair and sighs. Leaning back in the seat, she tells me, "I don't trust you. I'm not sure if I ever will, but I can see why you did it all. That doesn't mean that I forgive you, either. You… you don't understand how it felt. We… we might never get back to where we used to be, but this is a start. You aren't my friend, we're just acquaintances."

My eyes closed, I swallow painfully and nod in recognition of her words. "Okay …"

As much as I want everything to be okay, I know it can't. Nothing this serious can be fixed with some tears, hugs, and within a matter of minutes, but I know we're on our way to recovery. And all I can do is hope that everything turns out alright.

* * *

_Holy, crapamole._

_I can't say how sorry I am. Although I do have a life, one month of not updating is kinda mean. My younger sister even got mad at me [but that's no surprise]_

_Oh, and just in response to a review : This story is a _sequel. _If you don't get what's going on, please read 'Traitor' :] Thanks!_

_Just one more apology to mention: Sorry that after almost a month of no updates, this chapter is pretty much a filler. But I honestly have half the next chapter done and dusted, so the second that is finished, I'm sending it off to Moe [XxXMoeGanXxX] - my awesome beta - to, well, _beta _it for me._

_Love you guys in an extremely non-creepy way, and would love you even more if you reviewed all your frustrations/hates/likes/loves/things you want to see!_

_~Jen_

_[Oh, and there's a poll on my profile to see what you'd like to happen in this story, so check it out pretty please?]_


	13. Moscow

Domodedovo International Airport.

"Moscow?" Bex inquires to no one in particular, staring out one of the plane's windows at the large sign. "Why exactly was Russia the choice of experts here at the best facility of all mankind?" she asks, once again to the air surrounding her sweating form. She seems somewhat blown over with stiff sarcasm since our fight. Too overprotective of her emotions and her actions; afraid at any certain moment someone may take her down.

I shrug and stand up from my seat, shooting a questioning look at Grant, who also shrugs. I beckon him over and he approaches slowly.

"It's what your note said," he murmurs almost inaudibly into my ear.

The note. It was practically ripped from my hands the moment I got into the van back in Hawaii, without me even seeing what it said. I tried to ask Lerner, but he was always busy with something else, so I simply pushed it from my many wandering thoughts; I was too preoccupied as it was.

"What did it say, _exactly_?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Grant looks over his shoulder and mumbles, "Just _'Moscow, Russia'_ and it had a series of letters and numbers on it. We haven't been able to decipher them just yet, so we're going to split up and make our way to our accommodation. There's a reliable contact there. One who's _not _lying dead on the floor of his house with a bullet through his brain."

I welcome Grant's sarcasm. It doesn't appear as hostile as Bex's.

I roll my eyes and drag Grant's backpack from the overhead luggage rack. "Fine, but how are eight of us going to get there inconspicuously?"

He grins, his whole tired face lighting up, as he holds up an orange sack. "Ever wanted to be a tourist, Cammie?"

"Ugh."

* * *

I must say, the eight of us look _ridiculous_ in tourist-wear. Especially Ann. The moment I think the thought, I push it out because she gives me an icy glare as if she can read my mind. Or at least had her special organisation build her one that's only receptive to my mind waves; I wouldn't put her above doing such a despicable thing.

Because Moscow is so cold, we're all snuggled up into thick, bulky fur jackets, and carrying cameras. Thankfully, due to our assorted beanies, our comms units are hidden even better than having Macey do our hair in strange twisty 'fashionable' styles back at Gallagher - most of which made me look like Princess Leia from Star Wars. I have to remind myself she just loved having us as her own personal Barbie dolls.

From beside the plane door, Lerner, wearing a strange, green-striped coat, calls out, "Okay! We're ready to go. Leave in pairs, and try not to split up. Remain as unnoticeable as you can."

Beside me, Ann digs into my ribs far more sharply than necessary. "Won't be hard for you, Camera."

Before I can launch myself on her, Chris grabs my gloved hand and drags me towards the door. A safe distance away from that creature, I stare her down as she struts, or at least her half-limp version, away to her own partner. _That poor, unfortunate soul,_ I think to myself. We're the second pair to leave. And as I glance behind us as we walk along the jet way, I see Grant looking rather uncomfortable with his partner-arrangement. He and Ann are paired together.

If you've never visited Domodedovo International Airport before, the first thing you would notice is the enormous glass panels that make up the entire building. And then you would realise how busy it is. The noisy tears and laughter of meeting and greeting loved ones presses in on us from all sides as we make our way past the airport officials. We take our time strolling inconspicuously towards the exits and proceed onward to other things.

After presenting our fake passports to a very fat, disgruntled Russian man, and have our bags x-rayed, we stare wide-eyed around at the area, like most other tourists around us. We even take a few photos simply for effect.

Once Chris and I determine that we aren't being tailed, we head away from the bustling area; all the while bantering loudly about places to stay and how cold the weather is in our ridiculous German accents. Meanwhile we're lugging large navy blue suitcases, provided by the Cincta.

As an enormous poster of some Russian supermodel flaunting a skimpy bikini comes into view, Chris stares avidly up at her and I smack him on the head. "Stefan! Ve need to _focus_!"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head momentarily as if regaining consciousness, before replying, "_Ve_ need to find a taxi."

When he doesn't move, I roll my eyes and grab his arm roughly, dragging him towards the front of the building. "You're an idiot," I mutter quietly into his ear, irritated.

Chris doesn't reply, only smirks to himself and allows me to shove him towards a stationary yellow and white car, with _'Taxi' _written in Russian on the side. Swiftly, he opens the car's door and pokes his head inside, discussing a price in the driver's native language.

After a few moments, I hear them come to an agreement, and we dump our suitcases in the boot. I've barely got my left foot inside when the driver floors the accelerator, causing me to jerk backwards and curse in German. (Make sure to always stick your cover, even when it includes spouting profanities at your lowest of volumes.)

Without losing any arms or legs, we arrived at Red Square.

After Chris pays the taxi driver, and we take our luggage out of the boot, he leans close and wraps one arm around my shoulders. "So, where to now?" he asks in my ear, his warm breath making my skin tingle.

I mentally hit myself for feeling like that, and reply, "That's up to you. But we do need somewhere to dump our luggage."

He nods. "I'm on it, Camster."

"You seriously did not just call me that."

"Oh, I think I did."

* * *

Contacts are a great thing to have as a spy. In fact, they're essential. Isn't there that saying, _'It's not _what_ you know, it's _who_ you know."_

It turns out Chris has heaps of contacts. Even in _Moscow, Russia._

"Frederick!" he calls out as we enter a very cozy trinket shop. Little dust-collectors line the walls, looking pristine and inviting. All of them have a small, white sticker prominently announcing their price.

We hear rustling from the back of the shop, and soon a thin, middle-aged man, with a chunk of jet-black hair on his head, appears behind the counter, smiling rosily. "Ahhh, Dimitri! You 'ave returned to dear Moskva!"

I make a mental note to notice how he has a thick Russian accent, and rolls his 'R's.

With a small glance at me, Chris replies in Russian. "Yes, I have, and I need a small favor." The man has an amused smile of his face as he replies in Russian, "Don't you always, Dimitri?"

Once we've finally got away from the thick-haired man and have dumped our luggage safely with him, we wind our way through busy streets towards a train station.

Chris swiped a city map from somewhere and studies it intently while I keep a wide eye out for any sign of trouble or tails. So it's a while before I notice that Chris has the note I found back at the hut in Hawaii.

"What are you doing?" I inquire out the corner of my mouth, still looking all around the bustling station like any normal, dumb-struck tourist.

"I just had a thought…" he mutters, tracing the page with one long finger.

Sighing in exasperation, I reply, "Well…? What is this brilliant idea?"

Finally, he looks away from the map and directly into my eyes with his own dark-blue ones. The intensity makes me shiver, but I don't break the gaze. "You see these numbers on the letter you found? Well, don't they look like Area and Grid References? The note says '_Moscow, Russia' _but that doesn't narrow the search down very much, so whoever wrote it probably put more exact references on there so we could find the building far more quickly.

I'm kind of shocked by his cleverness. I wouldn't have thought of that – well, I _might _have, but since the note was ripped from my hands pretty much as soon as I showed anyone, I didn't have much time to study it. "That's so… that's genius, Chris!"

But he places a finger over my lips to silence my loud voice. I blush at my stupidity, but then realize that he hasn't taken his finger away.

Both of our gazes slide down to his finger – my own eyes with that _so _attractive cross-eyed look about them and his, an emotion I can't quite distinguish.

I barely register that he removes his finger because of the fact that he's leaning closer. I eventually come to my senses and tilt my head as our lips connect. One of his hands takes my own and squeezes it gently, while the other one moves to the side of my neck.

His touch sends tingles through my body; it's amazing.

But then someone else's touch jumps into my mind, causing me to jolt away from Chris, breathing heavily. I rest my head in my hands and fight internally over the dark-blue eyes of the guy next to me and the mysterious, dark-eyed guy I haven't seen in _so _long. Suddenly a distinct wave of sadness washes over me.

"Are you okay?" Chris sounds worried. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"No," I reply quietly, "it's all good."

I busy myself in gathering up all the maps and the all-important note so that I don't have to look into Chris's confused and hurt eyes again.

Realizing our train has arrived, I stand up, slinging the small backpack we kept over my shoulder and walk towards the opening doors. A disruption off to the right of me stops me from actually boarding the train.

A familiar dark-skinned woman is arguing with someone who's just out of sight because a bunch of Japanese tourists stand in the way.

Something in my stomach clenches as I realize the dark-skinned woman is Bex. As the tourists move out of the way and onto the train, my heart flips over and over as I recognize the guy she's arguing with.

It's Zach.

I'm _way _too stunned to shake Chris's hand off my own. I feel even fainter as a black-haired guy holding a petite, blonde girl's hand join the arguing pair - Jonas and Liz. Chris, not having met my former friends, pulls me gently onto the train as the calm, female, Russian voice comes on over the PA, telling all passengers this is the last call.

As I'm pulled through the metal doors, Zach turns his head and catches sight of me. His mouth forms a small, almost indistinguishable, 'o'. He nudges Bex, but by this time, the doors have slid shut. When the train begins to rumble – signaling movement - I press my face up against the window, my breath fogging the glass.

The train rolls past the staring group of four and they notice me in the window. Bex frowns, biting her lips if she knows how much trouble she's going to be in when I see her again.

So _that's _what she's been using the phones for!

* * *

Although Chris is smart, he seems kind of unaware that my mind is about to explode from sheer confusion, pain, and a million other unexplainable emotions. He just continues to bend over the maps and the note, muttering to himself.

I stare out at the city buildings – covered in snow – and the dangerous-looking streets, frowning at nothing in particular.

"I've got it!" cries Chris after around ten minutes.

I whip my head around to look at him, astonished. "Yeah? Where's this building, then?"

He names an address, excitedly telling me how it's only been there for six years. "It's a rather low-key Russian bank called 'the Royal Russian Network'."

Nodding slowly, I turn back to the window. Through the reflection, I see him frown. "What's wrong, Cammie?" A slight twinge of guilt runs through my jumpy system, but I shrug and don't answer him. I'm still mad that he hasn't noticed before now. He's meant to be a good friend! "Nothing."

With a small laugh, he says, "My…my older b-brother told me once that when a girl says 'nothing' it usually means _everything._" His sarcasm and somewhat playful tone make me a tiny bit more interested than before.

Confused at his hesitation of mentioning an older brother, I scoot back around to face him again. "I saw them. I saw Bex with them."

"_Them_?"

"Liz, Jonas…Zach."

"Oh." He's always seemed tense whenever someone brings up Zach's name.

Our conversation is brought to a halt as the train screeches to a stop, jerking about uncomfortably. Chris shoves everything into the backpack and takes up my hand again. "Let's go find this building, and then we'll talk, okay?"

* * *

_I present to you the very first beta-ed chapter! Now you will see the quality improve. I hope, anyway. _

_Yeah, kill me. It's another filler - but do you know how many tests I've had lately? _

_The vet is just too cruel to me. _

_So, review please! And, yeah. Enjoy life. And such things. _

_~Jen_


	14. Banks and cold days

Zach watches as Bex's eyebrows furrow and she makes small circles on the frozen, stone floor of the train station with one booted foot. He can't exactly interpret what she's thinking, but for once he has a fair idea of what it's like to be close to the Chameleon, and he doesn't like it. He's never had this vivid a moment about not being able to reach what he can't have. For once, Zachary Goode is _desperate_.

His own mind is swirling with the image of Cammie – _his _Cammie – whizzing past on the opposite side of that scratched and grimy train window. Zach closes his eyes and savours the image even though shock was evident on her features. He thought he would never see her again because she was supposedly _dead_.

"Where are they going?" he questions Bex, causing her head to snap upwards.

With a small shrug of her shoulders, she replies, "I…I don't know. I can contact Lerner and find out; they'll be so bloody far away it probably won't even make a difference."

"Then we need to get a surveillance team tracking them. Liz, Jonas, do you think you can find them?"

Jonas raises a dark eyebrow. "Is that an insult?"

* * *

"Well…" Bex begins hesitantly, "Lerner doesn't know where they are… He says that their comms unit is acting up…"

The four of them are hidden in a deserted tunnel, any and all sounds echoing off the mouldy, damp walls.

Frustrated, Zach runs a hand furiously through his knotted hair. "Got anything, Jonas?" Jonas could hear a slight twinge of desperation and longing in his best friend's low voice.

With a small, and almost sad, shake of his head, Jonas replies, "No, but Liz is just running a scan—"

"I've got something!" his fiancée interrupts urgently. "Thank goodness for security cameras!"

They all crowd around Liz's high-tech, easily-disguised laptop, watching the screen with increasing trepidation. On the five-by-five inch screen is the rather fuzzy picture of two recognisable people. If Zach weren't a spy, he wouldn't notice the way the two mutter almost indistinguishably to each other out the corners of their mouths as they pretend to take photos of each other in front of a stone, formal-looking building.

It's clear they are trying to get some good shots of the building itself; obviously to pore over them later.

"Where is this building?" Zach asks immediately.

Liz clicks the cordless mouse and then types madly away on the tiny keyboard. "I'm just running a scan. It'll tell us the rough estimation of the building at the very least. Why do you need to find Cammie so quickly?"

Zach hoped someone wouldn't raise this question; he knew it would be difficult to answer. Then that answer would lead to more and more questions, most of which probing his allegiance and who his contacts are. He didn't even want to think about being interrogated by Rebecca Baxter; just the thought made him shudder slightly.

"I…I miss her…And I need to talk with her."

He can tell none of the others fully believe him, but he doesn't care, he has far more important things to deal with at the moment.

"Okay, I've got a location!"

* * *

"Everyone take a comms unit – they're encoded so no one can hack them. I'm really hoping we won't need to split up, but everyone knows hope doesn't get you far in our profession." Liz hands Bex a small box of tiny, skin-coloured earpieces.

As everyone appends them to their ears, Bex says to Zach so that no one can hear, "I know you're lying – we all do – and I'm not going to let it go."

Zach just shoots her a look of pure innocence, but Rebecca Baxter is a trained spy and sees past the fake expression easily. She rolls her eyes and holds back an attempt to claw Zach's eyes out of their sockets. She knows she could easily do it, considering the materials in the room she could complete her easy task in twenty-eight ways without having to take more than three breaths.

"We're on the next train, okay?" calls Liz as they walk back to the bustling train platform. Each and every one in the group was wrapping their bulky, warm jackets closer to their reptilian-like skin (due to the dire cold) to preserve body warmth.

When the train finally screeches to a halt five minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, the four of them discreetly board it, not one of them actually carrying a ticket. Once the doors close, they breathe a collective sigh of relief and make an attempt to situate themselves comfortably on the itchy, dark-green seats.

"We've got to get to Druzhby Street and find _the Royal Russian Network_," Jonas informs everyone, looking up from the small computer screen.

Frowning, Zach inquires, "Why are they at a bank?"

Everyone turns to face Bex, who scrunches up her nose in annoyance. "Do I really have to explain? It'll take ages!"

"We need to know, Bex," says Zach, sitting up in his seat by the horribly scratched and nowhere near transparent window. "Plus, we have quite a while before the train stops at the station we need."

With an irritated sigh, Bex rubs her eyes and tucks her greasy, dirty, brown hair behind her ears. "So you all obviously know there are seven continents. Someone – a very _sick _someone – decided years back that it would be fun to build seven massive nuclear bombs and place them at strategic points on these continents, so as to cause as much devastation as possible. And—"

"Let me make a conjecture," interrupts Jonas, causing Bex to send an annoyed and frustrated look his way, "There is someone out to set all of them off, and the Sinkers – or whatever you called that organization – are trying to stop them."

Bex slowly nods her head in partial annoyance at the fact he decided to interrupt her at the _beginning_ of her speech, when he was one of the ones who wanted to know. She says through gritted teeth, "Just one correction, Jonas dear," her voice thick with British accent and bitterness. "There's more than one terrorist group after her."

"_Her_?"

"Cammie. She holds the key – even if she doesn't realize where the answers lie – to the whole mission, thus, yet again, she is being targeted."

The group falls silent; everyone pondering the many, _many_ possibilities of where the answers lie.

Only when the door connecting the train carriages open and a blue-suited lady enters does everyone jerk out of their reveries and stiffen. She's a ticket collector.

She says in Russian, "Tickets, please." Her voice is as heard-set as her mouth – which forms a thin line.

Shifting in their seats, no one moves to find their tickets; they needn't bother, there's nothing _to _find. The ticket collector, sensing this, prowls forward, a scowl on her face. "Let me take a wild stab in the dark: you're stowaways? Four lawbreakers looking for some thrills?"

Although she speaks fluent Russian, Bex, Liz, Jonas, and Zach have no trouble understanding her, or her mood; she's incredibly aggravated.

* * *

"Ow!" cries Liz as all four of them slam into the freezing, concrete floor of the next station the train stops at.

Even Zach is amazed at how strong the ticket collector is; she's like a female version of the Hulk. He gathers his feet beneath himself and stands upright, dusting off his clothes before lending Bex a hand which she condescendingly rejects.

"I don't need your help, Zachary."

He just shrugs at her hard words and turns to Jonas. "You got a GPS?"

Jonas puts his hand to his heart and blinks a few times to establish he was being sarcastic. "Do you have arms?"

"He won't soon if you guys don't _hurry up_," Bex threatens, whose arms are firmly folded across her chest, keeping her furry jacket closed.

* * *

"Are you sure this is it?"

Increasingly frustrated at their lack of faith, Jonas rolls his eyes. "I'm _certain._"

"How can you be certain?"

Exhaling slowly, his breath appearing in front of him in a white cloud of fog, Jonas points to the obviously recently attached brass sign out the front of the modern building they had seen on the computer screen earlier.

_The Royal Russian Network_

Proudly erected in 1998

BRANCH: Moscow, Russia

"Oh."

Liz, who has been unusually quiet throughout the whole afternoon, speaks up, albeit quietly. "Should we go in? Do you think they're here?" Jonas slips his hand into hers and squeezes it gently.

Zach swallows at the sight of the affectionate gesture and turns his head in the opposite direction. He misses doing that to Cammie a lot more than a spy is supposed to miss something in the emotional sense.

Bex pushes past the lovebirds and walks confidently into the building, a welcome gust of heated air blowing her matted hair behind her. Inside, she takes off her gloves and quickly and inconspicuously surveys the room's exits and lack of windows. As soon as she has an escape-route firmly set in her mind, she approaches the front desk with a polite smile gracing her tired features.

"Can I help you?" the well-groomed, sleazy-looking man behind the granite reception desk asks, surprisingly, in perfect in English.

"Umm." Bex clears her throat. "I'm Renita. My friends and I have accidentally split up with two others in our group and we were wondering if they came in here."

Zach has to refrain from raising an eyebrow. He's sure he could have asked the same thing Bex did in a far less conspicuous manner.

The sleazy man taps a long, manicured finger on his chin, thinking. "I think… Yes, yes, there was a married couple in here. They've just left, I'm afraid. They met with one of our accountants briefly before departing a few minutes ago."

"Did you happen to see which direction they left?" Bex masks her British accent with an American one in case she seems even more out of place.

After another pause, in which the man thinks, Bex gets her answer.

"I thought I heard them say something about going back to their accommodation, but I couldn't say for sure…"

With hardly enough time to say a proper _thank you_, all four rush out onto the freezing, yet still reasonably busy, street.

Bex briskly sets off down the opposite direction of the street from which they came. "I know where they are."

Those words were the best things Zach has heard all day, especially after hearing Cammie – the girl he loves – has pretended to be married to some guy she's only really just met. Zach never thought it would happen, but he's jealous.

Bex pauses beside a very plain, uninteresting car and glances all around her. No one appears to be looking, so she pulls a strangely-simple, silver key, which she then pushes into the car's lock. After sixteen seconds, Bex pulls out a fully-formed, hard key which now fits the car in front of her.

With a thankful glance at Liz, Bex unlocks the car and ushers everyone inside. Once all limbs are safely in the car, Bex zooms off like a madman, completely disregarding any road rules of Russia.

"Bex…Uh, B-Bex," stutters Liz. "Can you slow down?"

"No."

Zach, who is sitting in the passenger seat, turns to face Jonas. "Did you bring any Napotine patches specifically made for Bex?"

Apologetically, Jonas replies, "Sorry, only packed the extra-strong ones made for Macey."

Fourteen minutes later, the car skids to a terrifying halt out the front of a disgusting, run-down hotel.

The thing is – it's on fire.

* * *

_From now on things start to pick up a little. I just realised how BORING my story is. Ugh, I don't know why you guys stick with it!_

_But I pinky, dinky promise that the action starts from now! _

_Okay, so this chapter was SO awful, that is until I sent it to Moe. She's totally awesome. And she's my beta. Give her a clap - her work is amazing! I swear, she improved this chapter so much. _

_Also, how many chapters do you, the reader, want? I feel like this is dragging out for too long. I don't know... _

_Question number two: chammie or zammie? Completely up to you. (personally, I prefer zammie, but, hey, I'm not in control of it. Oh, wait, I AM. Heh.)_

_I am already typing up the next chapter (In which I will reveal the results of my poll - so go on and vote!) and it should be coming your way very soon! _

_So go my little munchkins! It is your duty to review and bash my story all you like!_


	15. Badass Liz

_So, this chapter is dedicated to _**Kristen dnt wear it out **_whose birthday was yesterday. And she wanted me to update. So here ya are. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, too. :]_

_Oh, and to all my old reviewers, the ones who've been with me right from the start. _

_Okayy, a little WARNING. This chapter gets a bit... intense at the end. No, not sexually, you hormonal apes. But more...violently._

_After all, aren't depressing stories Jenna's forte? _

_OH and another dedication. To Prince Willy and Kate Middleton (future freakin' Queen!). Congratsss. Well, I was mad at first that she had taken him - I've always admired his hair, and gorgeous smile... Oh well, there's always good ol' Harry. Err... _

_Anyway, I'll leave you alone now._

* * *

"Damn…thing…" mutters Chris, fiddling around with our comms units, which have now been downgraded to being completely and utterly _useless._

I can't help but think of how if Liz was here, she would have it fixed faster than you can say _genius. _

With a loud sigh, I lean back against the train's seat and close my eyes. The way the train rattles and bumps lulls me into a much welcomed rest. Exhaustion is one thing that's become a regular thing in my life; it's with me nearly every day.

When Chris gives up and throws the comms units aside, he doesn't appear to be fazed.

"What stop are we getting off at?" I ask blearily.

His dark blue eyes slide away from the window and come to a halt on my own. "The Paveletsky Rail Terminal. It's not the closest to Druzhby Street, which is where we're headed, but that gives us time to shake any tails we may possibly have. We'll take the long route."

Not in the mood to talk, I simply shrug and close my eyes again. But it seems as if someone upstairs is against me because just as I'm about to drift off, the train shudders to a halt into an underground station, plunging us into very little light, and causing me to jerk upright.

Our carriage, which was completely empty before – except us, obviously, floods with all different shapes and sizes of people. Chris and I quickly slip into the roles of lost tourists, conversing in loud, obnoxious Canadian accents and pointing obscurely at maps.

An athletic-looking lady, wearing a grey tracksuit, slides onto the seat next to me. She gives me a brief smile before pulling out a music player and unraveling its earphones, which she then slips into her ears a little too loosely for my liking, not to mention she doesn't even start listening to music.

I note that, weirdly, she's wearing an expensive watch, engraved with some strange code that definitely isn't in any language that I know, which is a lot considering out of the 273 languages spoken worldwide I know 268. As an added plus, most people take off their jewelry before they go out jogging.

The train doors finally clank shut a minute and ten seconds later, accompanied by a dull buzzing sound. When the carriage starts to rumble along again, I suddenly realize that Chris has linked his ankle around my own.

I try to catch his eye, but he's too busy gazing at the dense, snow-covered buildings whizzing past the window.

The muffled buzz of the passengers' chatter in the background, I retreat back into my own mind and make a mental note to kill – or severely harm – Bex when I next see her. I should have known she was up to something; it's just so stereotypical of her; very Bex-like in nature.

I decide I need to speak to her ASAP, so I subtly pick up one of the broken comms units under the pretence of looking underneath the various maps which are scattered on the seat next to Chris.

Scratching my ear, I slip the tiny communication device in and turn it on. A loud screech which emanates from that very same device almost makes me jump. I'm not sure whether the lady next to me hears it or if she accidentally rushed the volume of her music too loud, because she jumped at something as well. The unusual thing is, I didn't hear any music out of my left ear.

That's when it hits me: _we need to get away. _

I nudge Chris's leg in one subtle motion, getting his attention, and mouth, "_Get out at next stop._"

Almost imperceptibly, he looks up at the ceiling for a moment, and then back at the tips of his feet to show he understands.

Six very intense minutes later, the next station – our station – comes into sight so Chris and I stand upright, hanging onto the handrails above our heads. He eyes every single person in the carriage carefully, checking for any sign of anyone following us.

The moment the doors slide open, we stride off the train, keeping our heads down so we blend with the hundreds of others bustling about the station.

"This way," Chris tells me, gesturing to a set of stairs.

All the way up, I count the steps as if at any moment Mr. Solomon – _my step-father _– is going to appear and quiz me on it all.

_One hundred and sixty-eight…one hundred and sixty-nine…one hundred and seventy…_

Chris reaches for my hand as we ascend onto the ice-covered street and I let him take it for fear of slipping and breaking my neck. Of course, I'm a very coordinated person – not to sound snobbish, or anything – but with the gusts of freezing wind along with the melted, slushy snow, I wouldn't put it past anyone to slip.

The two of us carefully make our way down the street as fast as we possibly can.

"Chris, do you _ever _get tired?" I ask, my eyelids drooping. He laughs.

"I do," he says slowly, "but when there's something as big as what we're dealing with, I try to suck it up."

Immediately, I feel myself become more alert. Is he suggesting that I'm whining? That _I _should 'suck it up'? My cheeks flush red – and it's got nothing to do with the cold.

"Are you trying to insinuate that I'm a whiner?"

He doesn't reply.

"You _are_, aren't you?" I stopped to put my hands on my hips, showing how ticked off I was at him right now. Let's just say stopping wasn't on Chris's agenda right now, but my pride and my expertise were both being challenged at the moment, and being the woman-spy I was, I was taken aback at his audacity of insinuating such a terrible thing.

I receive no reply. Instead, Chris decides to scratch his chin and change the subject. "Let's take the next left."

Oh, prepare yourself, Chris Lancaster; feel the wrath of the scorned Cameron Morgan: wanted spy, kick-butt poker player, and very bad singer. I don't know about normal females, but when I decide to give someone the cold shoulder, I'm _icy. _I don't crack under _anything. _So, I straighten up and act as if it doesn't bother me as much as it _really _does. I decide to "suck it up" and deal with it later when I have him in a secluded area with no witnesses.

Around the corner, the scenery doesn't change much. There still are tall, modern-looking buildings, frozen sidewalks, and the occasional rugged-up pedestrian rushing as fast as they can so as to get out of the cold.

Chris, being a member of the male population, refuses to take directions from anyone, and definitely doesn't listen to me, even though my internal map is pretty good. Instead, we stop in a small, cozy café and sip deliciously-hot drinks while he tries to make sense of the annoyingly-large map.

I glance around the room as a shiver runs down my spine. I get the feeling that something's not right. Being a spy I am exceptionally worried because usually when you have a bad feeling, you need to act upon it. But upon a swift yet thorough, scan of the place, I see no one _too _suspicious. Well, maybe that man in the corner with the 'stache that Ann would have a heart attack just seeing – but all he is doing, as far as I can see, is trying to chat up the disgruntled lady with the receding hairline who sits beside him.

The dim light doesn't help much with my drowsiness, but I fight against it and keep all my senses on high alert. Any spy knows that they _always _have to be on their game, unless, of course, they wish to die a very painful death.

The life of a spy is just _charming, _isn't it?

"Look, swallow your stupid pride, already," I snap, after finishing my fourth hot chocolate. "You aren't magically going to grow girly parts if you ask for directions."

"If this is about before, Cameron," says Chris, not looking up from his tracing, "drop it already. We need to go."

Rolling my eyes, I throw the little money I can find in the backpack onto the deeply scratched table and stand up quickly. Bright lights burst in front of my eyes and I sway a little before I can regain my balance. "Hurry up, then."

From out the corner of my eye, I notice the lady with the balding head's eyes snap briefly towards us. But as soon as she glances over, she turns away again. It's a dead giveaway any amateur can make. She might as well be wearing a luminescent vest and be holding a sign saying: '_Don't mind me; I'm just part of an evil organization who would love to have your head served up on a plate, I'm not looking at you or anything._'

"We _really _need to go," I reiterate with frustration. "Seriously, _hurry up._"

Noticing the somewhat subtle urgency in my tone, Chris gathers all the papers up and shoves them haphazardly into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. I can tell he's also scanning the room for the danger I've spotted.

With every moment he's wasting I'm sure our tail has come to some conclusions, so I start yelling at him in a frilly and flirty French accent and pull him by the collar out of the door. Clearly the amateur knows that we know that she knows us (how's that for confusing?) so she follows closely as we, yet again, weave our way strategically down the street.

"How do we lose her?" Chris mutters to himself, more than anyone else.

"Through the beauty and complexity of public transport," I reply with a little grin.

It's like being back at the Gallagher Academy in CoveOps with Mr. Solomon. I can almost imagine his steady, deep voice in my ear giving the whole class advice, but it feeling like he was directly there, mentoring only me. I imagine Bex and Macey with me, the three of us having a great time while also completing the set mission with precision and ease.

Except it's none of that. We're really running from some psycho woman, who has somehow tracked me down. And where there's one organization, there are bound to be more.

Every single person we pass is a potential threat; every bus driver; every lady with a pram; every sullen-looking teenager. The only one I know for sure is after me is the one from the coffee shop. Although she's changed her dark coat to a plain, white one, it doesn't fool either me or Chris.

She's four seats behind us on the sweltering bus, and once again she's a good forty yards behind us as we hail a taxi. It feels as if she's everywhere, and if she's as good of a spy as she was trained, she probably is.

In the comfort of the taxi I still don't feel safe. Chris, sensing my discomfort, slings an arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently, his other hand playing with my – literally – dirty blonde hair.

But it doesn't comfort me much. In fact, the gesture feels kind of empty.

"Have we lost her?" I ask quietly, purely for reasons of breaking the silence.

He shoots a glance out the rear window. "Not quite; that's her in that car over there."

I sigh and slump dejectedly into the seat as Chris directs the young female taxi driver where to go. When she has to stop the car due to a crash on the treacherous road up ahead, we decide to get out and walk.

The tail doesn't notice as we creep out the doors of the taxi and scurry off.

* * *

Getting to the hotel doesn't take long once we realize we're tail-free. Of course, we still use all the counter-surveillance measures we know to deter anyone else. But I'm sure that my mind has focused more on getting a full two hours of sleep rather than detecting if there's a hidden camera on the side of the building we have just come across.

The area outside the hotel is just a reflection of the hotel; the trash bins are bursting with moldy food and other unidentifiable substances I'm sure Liz would classify as poisonous or disease-ridden. The frozen, brown grass is overgrown and a dead rat is slowly being overrun with pesky ants and the like near the curb of the road. There are even large crates of unsafe-looking fireworks pushed right up against the building. I repress a shudder and turn my focus to the building itself. It's hardly any better with broken windows with the words "I love Becky" etched into them. Other windows are taped up with yellow newspaper, rotting wood, and cobwebs with overgrown spiders crawling within them everywhere.

"Oh damn…" I mutter, but don't say anything about the obviously horrific accommodation.

Was Lerner drunk when he picked this place?

"Let's go in." It's good to be in control, instead of Chris acting like just because I'm a girl I can't do things. If there's one thing I despise _a lot _it's a sexist pig of a man.

He follows me down the cracked, make-shift path and through the front door, which I think is meant to automatically open, but takes several fierce tugs from me to let us inside and away from the freezing cold.

I walk briskly up to a short man who's rearranging some brochures he's clearly just spilt coffee on. "Hello? We're here to meet someone…we were wondering if they're here yet?"

He doesn't even acknowledge my presence, and instead keeps shuffling the rectangles of yellowed paper around. Through the harsh light of the bare light-bulb on the ceiling, I can see he's got a long goatee and his long hair is tied back in a pony tail. He looks troubled by something, so I wonder if he didn't hear me the first time.

"Um." I glance at Chris who shrugs. "Excuse me? Can you show us to a room?"

It takes four more times for him to look up and flinch. "Oh, dear, hello there! You should have just asked straight away!" he shouts.

I take it that he's deaf.

While Chris and the short man search for the keys to room 508, I take a look at the man's bookcase, which stands left of the rickety-looking stairs. You might not think it, but you can find out a lot about someone just by looking at their bookcase: religion, views, interests, dreams – _anything. _

You see, the more obviously loved books (the ones with wrinkled spines and worn-out pages) are the ones the owner reads the most, therefore, it's obvious that book is liked more, or older – while the ones that are clearly newer and less-read aren't.

"Come on." I don't realize Chris is talking to _me_ until he touches my arm gently. "Let's get upstairs."

The short man coughs, and I can tell he takes Chris's words in the completely wrong sense – like _really _wrong.

I'm about to correct him, but Chris drags me up the stairs before I can say anything.

He jiggles the lock of room 508 and shoves me in first, checking the musty corridor as he closes the door. Once we're both safely inside, I close the green, dusty curtains and switch on the dim light. The place is only two rooms (the living area and the bathroom), but we don't need anything more – after all, Chris and I probably won't be staying more than five hours.

"I'm going to take a shower," he tells me, heading towards the paint-chipped door.

I nod distractedly and collapse onto the disgusting couch, rubbing my tired eyes and yawning. Listening as a water system squeaks somewhere because the shower turns on; I heave myself up from the couch and slouch towards the backpack.

Still yawning, I search through it and pull out a photo from the very bottom that I'm not too sure Chris knows about. A tear rolls down my cheek as my father's young, yet strong, face stares back at me – a moment so long ago which has been frozen in time.

He reminds me of myself – the bone structure, the blue eyes – but there's also something else in his expression; something more jaded, like he's been through a lot more than me.

But then I think about it and realize that he must have been around my age when the photo was taken and also that I haven't really looked ay myself properly in a mirror lately. Perhaps I _do _have that expression too but I just haven't noticed it.

A noise startles me into dropping the photo back into the bag and wiping the cool tears from my skin.

"That was qu—," I start but then notice that the water is still running.

I whip around and come face to face with the leering woman from the train and the coffee shop.

Now, don't get me wrong, my reflexes are super developed but hers seem to be quicker. Well, that and the fact that she's got a taser gun.

* * *

In a dazed, pain-filled state, I try to remain alert but my eyes continue to droop against my will. The woman has bound my hands and my ankles are locked closely together, but enough that I can still semi-walk.

"Hurry up," she snarls, yanking my arm behind her.

I try to yell at her but all that comes out are unrecognizable words, slurred together with pain.

Her frizzy brown hair fills my vision as she shoves me in front of her. She presses the cold blade of a knife against my back and hisses, "Move it or we'll go get your _husband_, too."

_Husband? _I'm completely confused. _Since when was I married?_

Outside the room, I know the woman is going to have to be careful. She can't possibly risk a civilian seeing the two of us, so she's going to have to move quickly, which is good news for me. Even in my disorientated state, I remember Mr. Solomon's lesson on escaping sticky situations…

"_Make them feel as if they're in a rush; pressure them," he had said. "If they're stressed or hurried, they're far more likely to make mistakes. And ladies, mistakes, especially those of others, are an opportune time to correct the situation."_

"You know…" I mumble, wobbling a little down the many, many stairs, "people are gonna…they're gonna come soon…rescue me…Chris…"

She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she slightly believes me.

"You're gonna have to…to hurry if you want to get…me out of here." My voice is a little stronger now, so I take advantage of it. "I can tell you…you're a rookie. You made loads of mistakes tailing us…you're not that great. But maybe…maybe if you hurry, then no one will see us…"

The frizzy-haired lady – or Frizzy, as I shorten it to in my mind – tightens her grip on my arm and picks up the pace, taking two steps at a time; I've definitely got her worried.

"Shut up," she snaps angrily, but she nervously looks around as if Chris may pop out at any given moment.

But I'm not so good at following orders. All the way down the flights of stairs, I talk her into going faster and faster, until she's practically running. Once we're on the bitumen of the stingy car park outside, Frizzy slows a little to a power-walk, but that doesn't stop her from tripping over.

As she's holding onto me, I'm pulled down as well but I, at least, am expecting it, and return to my feet merely seconds later. Frizzy groans and also jumps to her feet. But she's too late; I'm already hobbling off, untying my wrists.

"Stop right there!" she screams from behind me.

I'd know that dangerous tone of voice anywhere; it's one of power. I turn slowly, both hands raised. And, not much to my surprise, she's got a gun. Only, it's not a regular gun – it's one filled with tranquilizing darts, like the ones they use to knock out big beasts in Africa.

Without question no one my size would survive a dart with that much intensity and pain-killers within it.

"Okay, okay," I yell right back at Frizzy, unnoticeably edging backwards as I speak.

"Stop moving!" She trembles with rage. "I'll shoot! Come over here or I'll shoot!"

A small smirk forms on my face. "Oh, no thanks, I'm good over here." She hasn't noticed yet, and I'm not about to alert her.

"Stop smirking!"

"Stop this, stop that," I laugh. "You can't control me, and you won't hurt me."

"How can you be so sure, stupid girl?"

A loud _bang _echoes through the area, scaring off some dark birds in a nearby tree. A deep look of surprise and pain crosses Frizzy's face as she falls forward onto her hands and begins to cough up blood. I give the tall figure behind her an appreciative look before striding up to Frizzy and standing over her.

I point to myself and say, "Spy."

Chris comes over and kneels down beside Frizzy. He's a compassionate person, so it's kind of inevitable that he presses down on her wound, trying to staunch the flow of dark blood.

It's a shame that Frizzy doesn't appreciate this. She grabs his gun which resides in his brown jacket's pocket and aims it at me. Thankfully, Chris is thinking quickly and launches for her arm just as she pulls the trigger.

Remember those boxes of fireworks are stacked in front of the hotel? Well, the bullet misses me and whizzes through the air, hitting them.

It's a chain reaction which takes less than ten seconds. The fireworks have nowhere to go, so they explode outwards in all directions – including ours.

Chris pulls me out of harm's way, ignoring Frizzy's cries for help.

We watch from a safe distance as the hotel goes up in flames, emitting a fierce heat which is almost _welcome _as it dulls the freezing air slightly.

As I'm wondering about whether or not to go back into the building to see if we can help anyone, a car screeches to a halt on the curb and four people jump out, all with shocked expressions on their faces.

My mouth drops open, but I quickly close it and slink back into the shadow of another building with Chris. We both watch as two of the four figures approach Frizzy's body and examine it, while another one – Jonas, I think it is – whips out a cell phone and dials a number.

The remaining petite and shaking blonde stands stock still, gazing at the burning hotel. Maybe Liz thinks that I'm still in there?

Distantly, I hear some of their conversations.

"…who's the girl?" Zach asks Bex, not looking at her but rather up at the building, like Liz is.

"...not sure…a contact…call HQ…" my old British roommate replies.

"Can we go in?" Jonas joins in, closing his cell phone and slipping it inside his bulky jacket. "…the building, I mean…"

I see Zach swallow and slowly shake his head. "Not yet…"

"What if Cam's in there?" cries Liz, confirming my suspicion.

Again, Zach shakes his head. "…hope not…"

Chris interrupts me from my eavesdropping by stroking my hair and whispering, "We've really got to get moving."

I glance back at my friends and my heart twinges at the thought of being so close and having to leave, _again. _"Can't we go talk to them?" I ask, dismayed.

He sighs. "Cameron, you're going to realize one day that spies don't have friends. For all we know, they could be on the other side."

I step away from him, angry that he would suggest that I won't remain friends with all of them. "How dare you?" My voice is hard. "How _dare _you suggest they're against us? I _know _they're not – isn't that enough?"

But his expression says it all; he doesn't think it is. He has a pompous look upon his face, as if he knows he's right and I won't ever be, no matter how much I try to convince him.

Not caring about sticking together, I back away from him, shaking my head. "Get out of my sight." And then I run.

Unfortunately, Frizzy must have called for backup because I see a stereotypical van speeding towards me. Begin to run in the opposite direction, with Chris calling out behind me, I know I'm not as fast as a car.

Someone else's screaming reaches my ears. It's more feminine and distressed and…_Liz-like. _But I don't have time to investigate because a bulky woman launches herself out of the van, straight at me. We crash to the ground, throwing punches.

I elude all her punches, just as she blocks all my kicks; we're too evenly matched. More of Liz's screams distract me, allowing Bulky to drag me by my hair into the van, sending painful pangs through my ankle as it got caught on the door.

"Cammie!" cries Liz as she runs as fast as she can towards me. I try to tell her to run away, but all noise is lost in the deep grumble of the van's engine.

Bulky launches from the van again, dodging my attempts at stopping her, and captures Liz in her muscled arms. Liz struggles with all her might, and even bites Bulky, but soon she ends up lying on the cold floor of the van right next to me with a small tranquilizer dart right in the shoulder. I know she's knocked out cold, and will be until they find something to do with her.

Bulky calls to whoever the driver is, as she slams the door, "Let's go!"

* * *

"No, no, no, _no!_" I cry as Liz and I are dragged out of the white cell we've been held captive in for hours in separate directions. "Take me again instead!"

But whoever is holding me just chuckles humorlessly. "Darl, you were so uncooperative last time that we're going to try our luck on the little one. But, don't worry, you can come and watch." I see that he has no mercy for me or my best friend. He has been trained to feel no pain, feel no compassion, and not to let me get the upper hand in any situation.

I'm shaking with pure rage as my captor and I enter a small, dark room, with a window which looks into another, brighter room on the opposite wall. My captor shoves me away and locks the door before standing in front of it.

I ignore them completely and rush over to the window, recognizing it as where they took me the moment we have returned from the burning hotel. The bruises which are scattered all over my body throb painfully.

Pressing my hands up against the cool glass, I watch in horror as Liz and a lady in tight, black pants enter the bright room on the opposite side. Liz looks absolutely terrified but also defiant.

_That's my girl. _

"Now," I can hear the lady who inflicted so much pain on me earlier extremely clearly even through the thick glass. "We're going to do this the hard way, as I assume you are as _resilient _as your friend."

Liz just stares at her in disgust, her hands clenched at her sides.

"What do you know?"

"I know a lot," Liz replies, her chin held high in confidence that only Liz the smartest girl to enter Gallagher gates could have..

The lady scoffs. "What do you know about a master plan to blow up the world and cause havoc?" She starts to circle Liz as if the small blonde were her prey.

"Sorry," Liz snarls, "I have no idea what you're going on aimlessly about."

"_That's my Liz," I think to myself._

The lady approaches Liz slowly. "Don't lie to me, Elizabeth Sutton."

"If the use of my full name is mean to initiate fear in the very soul of me, I regret to inform you that it has completely and utterly _failed._"

I'm beginning to think Liz is _way_ more badass than anyone ever gave her credit for.

The sound of a loud slap causes me to flinch internally, feeling Liz's pain.

"I thought it was only schoolgirls who slapped these days."

Although Lizzie never took Advance CoveOps, she somehow seemed to know the 'Aggravate Your Attacker: A Guide to Never Giving Up' handbook from cover-to-cover. Mind you, she probably read the whole entire library twice over before we even graduated.

"What about Cameron Morgan? How much do you know of her father?" the lady demands.

"I know that her father was one heck of a good spy. Way better than you'll _ever _be."

I see the lady swing her arm back and connect her fist with Liz's small stomach. "Answer the question!"

"No."

"Fine. Shall we go and find your fiancé and ask his opinion?"

_Don't fall for it, Lizzie, _I think desperately, as if trying to communicate with her using my mind. _Don't fall for it. _

"Yeah, right, so now using other people is supposed to be intimidating?" Liz shakes her head sarcastically and wags a finger in the lady's direction and continues, "That's the oldest one in the book, and I would know because I've read it three times _and_ written a 175 page report on it in ninth grade. Mind you I got an A+ on it as well!" I love how Liz is being complete opposite from what we see as the perfect schoolgirl, now she has a bad side, and it's playing to her benefit.

"So are you ready to answer my earlier question?" The lady presses, obviously frustrated from Liz's rude behavior.

"You'll have to refresh my memory bank." Liz replies with a raised eyebrow and fingers on her chin as if she were thinking.

"_What do you know of the plan to bomb the world?_" growls the woman, visibly growing angry.

My fingers tighten against the glass, growing steadily whiter and whiter. I just want to get Liz out of there and away from the menacing devil-woman.

"Nothing."

The woman swoops forward and grabs Liz's hand, pressing her against the wall, their faces inches apart. "Tell me!"

"I said _nothing_."

Spine-chilling snap of a bone in Liz's finger causes tears to well up in my eyes. "_Liz, hold on_," I whisper.

Liz's pale face contorts with pain, but she bites her lip so that no noise comes out. Because every spy knows that noise equals to showing weakness to the torturer. She squeezes her eyes shut briefly before flinging them open and glaring at the woman.

"Ready to tell me now?" the woman sneers, an evil smirk on her face.

"It's been statistically proven that—"

"SHUT UP!" Liz just stares resiliently at the woman, not giving an inch even as she pushes Liz harder against the wall and hisses, "I can cause you so much pain. You better start talking about all you know or else you'll be screaming for your stupid friends to come and help you. You'll be begging me for _death_. But you can whine and scream and beg for death, and you still know I won't give you such a privilege. You will suffer until you tell us, so why not just tell us now?"

I stand, pressed up against the window, for _ages, _but Liz doesn't crack even if many of her bones do.

By the time a knock on the bolted, steel door comes, I'm ready to rip the woman apart, limb from limb – and I would if it weren't for the thick, impassable glass cemented in my way.

Through it, I see another female enter the white room and walk up to Liz's _friend. _

"Time to swap," she says, jerking her thumb at the door.

The woman nods. "Thanks Luda, I'll be back later for what's left of the little one," she says menacingly, narrowing her eyes at Liz, who's crouched against the wall, holding her broken arm against her chest and breathing raggedly.

When Luda and Liz are alone again, she squats in front of Liz and says in a dangerously soft voice, "I don't care how hard Henna has tried to get vital information out of you; I am going to try twice as hard. You _will _tell me, make no mistake. And don't you dare try and pull your back-chatting _crap _on me, understood?"

Liz just glares at Luda from underneath her tired eyelids, until she flinches as a strong palm connects with her cheek. "I said: _am I understood?_"

Nodding slowly, Liz blinks and a small, clear tear dribbles down her cheek.

"Get up," Luda says as she ties her dark, sleek hair up into a ponytail. "Get UP!"

Judging by Liz's slow movements, she's in a lot of pain – and I don't blame her. I'm still sore from my own '_interrogation_'.

"Well." Luda sneers at Liz and flexes her abnormally long fingers. "Let the _fun_ begin."

* * *

"I TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" cries Liz as she cowers away from Luda, who's clearly enjoying herself.

"_Stop lying to me_!"

I wince as yet another harsh slap echoes throughout the room; it's like there are speakers amplifying all the pain which is inflicted upon Liz.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!" sobs Liz. "_You've got the wrong people_!"

Luda reaches forward and kicks Liz behind her knee, making her crumple to the ground. "NO, we_ don't_! Shall we go and find some more of your _friends_? How about I get dear Cameron in here, too, hmm?"

Throwing my fists against the glass with all my might, I cry, "Yes, YES! Take me instead! Leave Liz ALONE!" but neither of them hear me, no matter how much I want either of them to.

From somewhere, Luda produces a long, thin knife which glints eerily in the harsh light. Pressing it up against Liz's forearm, she shouts, "WHAT ARE THE CODES TO ACTIVATE THE BOMBS? TELL ME RIGHT NOW, YOU LITTLE WITCH, OR I'LL DO IT!"

But Liz just cries harder and squirms in Luda's vulture-like grip. She can't escape her, though, and lets out a _dreadful _scream when Luda drags down the knife in one swift movement. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as Liz's screams rip through my body like it's my own pain.

I'll do _anything _to get my poor friend out of that room and away from that…that _monster. _

I don't fully noticed the hot tears pouring from my eyes as my screams or anger mix with Liz's ones of pain.

"LET GO OF HER!"

"_Tell me how to activate the bombs_! NOW!"

"PLEASE! PLEASE! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"

I whip around, still sobbing desperately and storm towards my guard. "L-let go of her! Leave her alone, she's done nothing-_nothing _wrong!" I shake the bulky woman's arm roughly but she remains indifferent.

With an irritated and desperate huff, I rush back over to the glass and start pounding at it. Even kicking it doesn't make the slightest difference.

"Liz…L-Liz…" I sob, still smashing my palms against the window.

With her screams echoing around me, all I can do is watch on in horror.

The second Liz is pushed back into our cell with me I gather her into my arms and sob into her shoulder, just as she sobs into mine. We stand, clutched tightly to one another, for what feels like _hours; _I'm just so, _so_ relieved to have her back with me where I can keep her safe.

When we break apart, I pull my grey shirt over my head and begin to rip it up into strips to create a makeshift sling for Liz, as well as to bandage her bleeding wounds.

Neither one of us talks as I tie the grey material expertly in place, just as the Gallagher Academy taught me to not that many years ago. I just noticed Liz's sky-blue eyes focusing their attention on me, all puffy and sore-looking from her crying.

"Cammie…" Her shaking, thin, pale hand rests on my cheek. "It's r-really you…" she hiccoughs.

"Of course, silly." I force a smile and take the hand that's resting on my cheek. "Who else?"

"Oh, Cammie!" Again, Liz pulls me into one of her famous rib-crushing hugs. "I-I'm…so sorry…" Her voice is muffled by my shoulder.

Confused, I pull away and give her a questioning look.

"You know…" She glances down, obviously ashamed. "For…for not b-believing you."

I try to say something in reply, but I honestly don't know what I _can _say, so I just smile weakly at her. "We'll be okay, Liz; we'll get out of here."

She smiles back and squeezes my hand reassuringly, as if I'm the one that needs the encouragement. "I know. _You're here._"

* * *

_Urgh, I am so sorry that this has taken a month. AGAIN. Sue me. I'm a horrible author. I don't know how you guys put up with me. I can only hope that a long chapter makes up for my crapiness in updating. I don't even have any excuses you want to hear. _

_Except for my friend. She's a PSYCHO. _

_She dyed a streak of my hair orange. ORANGE. Don't ask how she did it without me knowing._

_And then, when we were at the counter to buy stuff at some clothes store, she goes to her mum, who's on the phone: 'Hang on mum, this dude is just checking me out.' Only when she hung up did she realise what she said._

_And, just the other day, we were having a little rock-out with our group of friends behind the faculty lounge - yeah, the noises go up through the little fan thingy outside the building and echo into the room through the heaters. They have NO idea where the noise comes from, though - and she began singing along to the music. _

_And I just HAD to be the one to have to tell her that the band _Lupe Fiasco _is not, in fact, actually _Lube Fiasco. _Nor are the lyrics to the song _the show goes on, _'Just remember wear your condom'... _

_ANYWAY - I will stop boring you (and leave my 'shift' key alone) now. See you in another month. (Only kidding. I have some of the next chapter written up. Not sure if it'll be as long as this one. We'll see.)_

_~Jen._

_PS - (Why do I do these?) Reviewing would be awesome, since I love you guys. You know, one day I'm going to burst through your computer screen and slap a wet one on your cheek. Seriously. Tell me about your pyschotic friends. Annoying teachers. _

_{And that's the end of my MONSTROUS author's note. Apologies.}_


	16. Your highness

I heard once somewhere that as long as you have hope, you're not anyone's prisoner.

Yeah, right. Hope can't cut through the four steel locks securing us into this dismal cell. Or knock out six armed guards that we knew were patrolling the corridors.

But maybe I'm just pessimistic.

"What's for breakfast today?" Liz mumbles as she wakes up, cradling the arm with the deep, jagged wound into close to her body. I can tell she's still in pain. I'll bet anything that the cut is infected and swelling.

I shrug my shoulders and push myself into a more comfortable position and try to get the pins-and-needles out of my foot. "Not sure. Twinkles delivered it earlier when you were yelling at someone in your sleep."

To lighten the mood a little, Liz and I had nicknamed all of our captors. All of which, we noticed curiously, were female.

"Oh." Liz crawls slowly towards the pathetic amount of food which has been shoved on a red tray. "I think it's Mystery Meat Monday," she comments over her shoulder.

I laugh quietly. "I wonder if the cafeteria lady spat in our food."

Later, as we poke cautiously at the food – which is, judging by the teeth marks in the bread crusts and chicken strips, leftovers – I say to Liz, "D'you think they'll find us?"

"Hey," she warns, pointing her floppy, white spork at me, "this is my fiancé we're talking about."

Raising my eyebrows, I reply, "I forgot about that. I can't believe you're getting _married, _Lizzie. It's just so…grown up_._"

A large grin lights up her dishevelled features as she hugs her knees to her chest, being careful to keep her injured arm out of harm's way. "I can hardly believe it either. It was just so perfect when he asked. I even forgot about you betraying us for a few minutes."

I playfully punch her shoulder on her uninjured arm lightly. "Hey, I'd have done anything to be there when you told everyone."

"Actually, Tina called Michaela at the agency, who then spread it everywhere before I had time to blink."

"Ah, good old Tina…"

We sit in silence for a few minutes, revelling in old memories of the good times we had at the Gallagher Academy.

"Cammie…" Liz throws down her spork and turns to face me, an excited glow evident in her pretty, blue eyes.

"Yes, Liz?"

"If we ever get out of here… do you think you'd… you know… want to be my Maid of Honour?" Her eyes are still shining with anticipation.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out, so I just close it and slide forward, closing the space between my friend and I. Into her shoulder, I whisper, "Of _course, _Liz."

It's an emotional moment, which is a little out-of-place in the bleak cell. Both of us shed tears, although, what for, I'm not entirely sure. When we break apart, Liz Is grinning like a lunatic, and I'm pretty sure I am too.

"You're the best, Cammie."

"Not as good as you, Liz, not as good as you."

* * *

A week passes strangely for Liz and I. Being in a cell without a clock or some way of distinguishing the time drives me crazy. My internal clock conked out days ago – or what feels like days ago. Only when the cold, metal door creaks open and a girl who can't be much older than fourteen walks in with two cups do I finally find out.

According to the girl's cheap, plastic watch – which illuminates both the time and the date – we've been prisoners for five days.

When I relay this information to Liz quietly, she whispers sadly, "Maybe they're not coming for us…"

"No—"

But the girl cuts me off. "E-excuse me, ma'am… you're to drink these."

I turn to face her and see that she's shaking, like she's afraid of us. I don't know why, but I give her a small smile and say, "Well tell them we're not thirsty."

The girl bites her lip and crouches next to me, placing the plastic cups down on the cement. "I'll leave them here." Then she does something that surprises me; she takes my hand in her bony ones. Between our palms, I can feel a piece of paper.

"Thanks," I tell her.

"Do you need anything else?"

It's like she's more of a maid than one of our captors.

"No," Liz interjects, shifting herself so that she's leaning against the rough wall.

The girl tucks a stray piece of dark brown hair behind her ear and nods. "O-okay…" Then she leaves the cell, only glancing back once with her eyes full of anxiety.

The second the clanging echo dies away, I unfold the piece of paper as quickly as I can. Liz and I read it super quickly before I shove it in the pocket of my jeans.

_2030__ hours. Be ready._

Liz's eyes are shining with excitement as she looks at me and says, "That means someone is coming to help us!" She scrambles towards me and pulls me into one of her infamous bone-crushing hugs. Even if it is only one-armed, she's still super strong. "We're going to get out of here!"

Obviously one of the guards hears her and opens the door. "Oi _shut it_!" she growls before slamming the door again, causing the clanging to once again echo loudly. Neither Liz nor I are fazed.

With my internal clock slowly returning to normal, it chimes eight o'clock. I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin on the coarse fabric of my dirt-covered jeans.

"Hey, Liz." She looks up from where she's drawing in the dirt and sand which has accumulated on the floor. "Does Zach hate me?"

Her expression turns sympathetic as she dusts of her hands and sits cross-legged. "No, no… I think he misses you too much to be angry. Although, that's just my opinion. Jonas stole my Boy-to-English prototype after we graduated, so even if we get out, I can't be scientifically sure of such a thing."

I laugh. "You're so lucky to have Jonas."

"I would be if he stopped putting the Parallel ATA cables with the USB and the External Serial Advanced Technology Attachment ones."

That makes me laugh even more. "Liz, don't ever take that boy for granted."

"What? Why would I swap him with Grant?" she asks, alarmed. Obviously she's misheard.

"I said _don't get complacent with Jonas_. He loves you." I take one of her bruised, bony hands in my own and squeeze it tightly. "And I'm going to get you back to him if it's the last thing I do."

* * *

Later, the voices outside the cell make Liz and I sit up straighter, tensed and ready for anything.

"_Whadda__ ya doin'?" _the gruff woman – Twinkles – asks roughly. _"Oi!"_

The sound of skin hitting skin reaches us. Whoever is on the other side of the cell has just taken down the guards. Quickly, I leap towards the door, ready to help whoever our saviour is open it.

The second all four locks are clicked open, I wrench it towards me and come face to face with the fourteen-year-old girl from earlier.

So maybe we aren't prepared for _everything, _exactly.

"Wh—what? _She's _the one who's going to get us out of here?" Liz cries out from behind me, voicing my own concerns. I can tell she's very apprehensive about trusting such a young, inexperienced girl with our lives.

The girl just frowns and doesn't comment. She steps over the bodies of the guards and walks briskly down the corridor. At the end where the passage forks out, she turns around and asks rather impatiently, "Well? Are you coming or not?"

After that, we waste no more time. Having had our shoes taken from us the second we were thrown in the cell, neither Liz nor I make a sound as we tiptoe along the cold floors, keeping our eyes peeled for any signs of activity.

"Where is everyone?" I question the girl. "And what's your name?"

"Names aren't important. They're all at another…interrogation."

Liz winces, and I don't blame her one bit. I can still see the bruises on her pale skin, only just starting to fade, not to mention the deep cut I haven't had time to redress.

"Fine." I decide learning her name isn't essential right now. I just want to get out of here and find our way to safety.

Luda peers around a corner and motions for us to stop. We all stop breathing and press against the wall. But I'm sure whoever is approaching is bound to hear my heart pounding loudly against my chest.

The footsteps are quiet and precise. From the duration between the times their feet alternate slapping against the floor, I can calculate the height of the person. By the sound of that slapping, I can also calculate their weight, roughly.

Mind and heart are two essential things in espionage. The thing is, which one is more important?

"Don't attack," I breathe extremely quietly to the teenage girl beside me.

Her dark eyes flick towards me and then back. She was definitely going to try something.

Usually I'm not very lucky, but someone seems to be on my side today, because when the owner of the footsteps comes into view, they have their nose buried in a thick wad of paper. Thankfully, they don't turn right, down the corridor where we're hiding, but instead continue straight ahead, not noticing a thing.

"Let's go," murmurs the girl, evidently eager to get out of this place. I wonder how long she's been here, and _why. _

There's no time for speculation, nor any time to really stop and plan. We scurry down the halls, hoping desperately that the people monitoring the security cameras are at this 'interrogation' as well.

"Where are we going?" whispers Liz. "We can hardly just walk out the front doors!"

"Oh, can't we?" The girl has a confident smirk on her face as she turns back to face the two of us. Maybe there's more to her than meets the eye.

When we skid to a halt, we're standing in front of a garage door – one you would expect to find on any regular suburban house. Confused, I watch the girl stride towards it, pull out a key and begin to unlock the three large padlocks at the base.

She drags the rusty door upwards very slowly. That way, the door doesn't screech and alert all the security personnel. The girl actually seems quite clever.

She gestures impatiently for Liz and me to roll through the gap between the bottom of the roller door and the floor. Liz crawls out first with some difficulty. Her infected arm seems to be extremely painful, but it's the least of my worries right now.

The girl waits for me to go before her but I shove her after Liz. There's no way I'm leaving her behind.

With one last glance over my shoulder at the deserted room, I follow the two of them out into the freezing, hostile night.

* * *

"You know," I tell the girl as we creep through the dense woods surrounding the complex, "I can just get Liz to run your face through her facial recognition system and we'll find out anything we want to know about you. That includes your name." I clear my throat. "So it'd just be easier if you told us now."

She shoots me a humoured glance. "Your friend is really that smart?" she asks as if Liz isn't right behind me, cursing all things outdoors.

And, honestly, _'smart' is_ such an understatement when referring to Elizabeth Sutton.

"Oh, you should see her dealing with anything electrical and high-tech. She's _amazing_."

Liz, from behind me, stops grumbling about the muddy, slippery ground and gives a feeble protest. She has never been one to boast about her unbelievable brain-power.

"But don't change the subject." Even a sharp stick digging itself deep into the heel of my foot can't dissuade me from pressing the question. "What's your name?"

"I've got some contacts coming to pick us up." The girl pointedly continues to ignore me, much to my utter irritation. As we come to a stop at a barely-visible dirt crossroad, she adds, "They should be here any second…"

Standing, breathing in dusty air, we wait in the freezing night, increasingly conscious of the flashing lights in the distance behind us. It feels like a lifetime before two headlights cut through the darkness, trundling at an alarming speed towards us.

By the pale light of the half moon, I can just distinguish a satisfied look on the girl's face.

The brown truck skids to a stop in front of us and the passenger side door bursts open. "Get in!" rumbles an unfamiliar voice from the driver's seat.

The girl climbs up first with Liz following closely behind and me bringing up the rear. No matter how hard I try to pin my hopes down, excitement bubbles up inside my chest at the thought of seeing the most important people in my life again.

* * *

Grant's muscular arms have never felt more comforting than they do now, but only in a completely platonic way. After lying on cold concrete for days on end, I'll take anything; even arms that have probably broken quite a few necks in their existence.

"Jesus, Cam," he scolds as we break apart. "Don't do that again."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, right, like I asked to be kidnapped."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a frantic Jonas panicking over Liz's injuries. It's so sweet how he forces her to be looked at by some of the Cincta's medical staff, even when she tries to sneak away to check on her computer.

We're back at headquarters, in the very same room I remember stumbling into with Grant, my arm bleeding copiously. Only it's changed a little bit; the area is slightly messier, with doors lining the circular walls and plenty of desks and piles of information stacked around. I watch Lerner speaking quietly to Macey, Bex and another Asian guy over by – what appears to be – a photocopy machine, but his face his obscured by Bex's unkempt hair so I can't read his lips.

"All right, debrief me."

Grant blinks, like he's got no idea what I'm talking about, before nodding slowly. "We've recruited everyone we can from all over. This clearly is a colossal task, and we need all the help we can get. That," he adds, seeing my expression, "includes Macey, Bex, Jonas, Liz and Zach."

I bite my upper lip and push my hands into the pockets of the sweat pants Areva let me borrow after all had settled down. I wonder, briefly, about where the girl who rescued us – the one hardly older than fifteen – has disappeared to. There was no time to question her further about anything, seeing as we were being bombarded with our own questions we had to answer.

"So," continues Grant, leaning against a doorframe, "you're bunking with Areva again because I know you can't stand Anne, and the others have already sorted out sleeping arrangements."

I'm not really listening any more because I still haven't seen a hint of the person I want to see most. He's either avoiding me – which doesn't make me feel too good – or isn't actually here at the moment.

As if reading my mind, Grant jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing down the passageway he's standing in front of and smiles slightly. I notice the hint of stubble growing on his chin and the dark circles under his eyes, and wonder if he's slept at all these past few days.

Feebly, I return a smile and walk past him, my heart beating faster and faster with every step. My footsteps are deafened by a dusty, deep purple-coloured carpet but I'm sure my pulse is echoing deafeningly loudly.

"Cool it," I tell myself, trying to stop fidgeting. "You're a spy, you don't get n—"

"Talking to ourselves are we?"

My heart literally flutters beneath the sodden, mud-splattered shirt that clings to my body due to its wetness. I swivel one hundred and eighty degrees on my heels and come face to face with Zach.

"No…" is my oh-so-_intelligent_ answer.

"It's not good to be in denial about your madness." He laughs quietly, taking slow steps towards me.

I give a half-hearted shrug, still playing along. "Who says I'm mad?"

"Ah, there you go again; more denial."

His proximity is almost too much to bear; there's hardly two feet between us, and its making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

"Hey," Zach says, still grinning, leaning closer, "why don't we go in there and chat?" He nods his head towards a door to the right of us, labelled: _CONFERENCE._ "We've got a lot to catch up on."

Anything I felt before is multiplied by a thousand as Zach places an arm around my shoulders and directs me towards the room. Thankfully, it's empty and someone has left the lights on, so we don't have to feel around the walls for a light switch.

"So…" I drag out the word as I find a comfortable position – me sitting cross-legged – on the rectangular table. The room makes me feel a little panicked, after being trapped in a confined cell for several days. The chairs are all stacked in neat, orderly heaps of ten behind me and the whiteboard at the far end of the room is clear of any notes or diagrams.

"So." Zach pulls a chair from one of the stacks and sits directly in front of me. "What's up?"

My eyes widen. "After all these months, all you have to say is '_what's up_'?"

He raises an eyebrow and is about to reply when the door opens slowly, a painfully familiar face peering around the edge. Ann.

"Oh, Camera, there you are," she says, walking into the room, completely ignoring the fact that Zach and I might just have been having an _extremely _important conversation before she butted in. "Jazz Hands says he wants you showered and rested by eight o'clock – your bed time. Although, I insisted even _that _was a little late for you."

Even after Liz and I have just got away from the people who captured and tortured us, Ann is still relentless.

"Sorry, Ann, that's not happening, I've got way too much to do," I tell her, frowning deeply.

She just scoffs and flicks some of her super-short, blonde hair off her face. "Just like your outfit today? But, then again, you've got no one to impress, so it doesn't matter for people like you, I presume."

"Stop presuming and get out of my sight. Tell _Ian _that I'm not a child; I'll do all that when I have time."

When she finally backs out the door with a horrible smirk on her face, I turn back to Zach who opens his mouth but is, once again, cut off by someone entering the room. It's Grant coming to tell me that I'm needed by Lerner. Apparently he wants me there when the questions the girl – the one who refused to tell me her name.

"Thanks, Grant," I say, and he obviously understands the dismissal because he leaves rather hastily.

Once again, I face Zach. "You're Miss Popular tonight," he remarks, pushing himself up out of the chair and walking forwards towards me. "Maybe you should go and attend to everything, your highness."

Breathlessly, I say, "Nah…"

He places his hands either side of me on the table and leans in close, so that our noses are almost touching. My breath hitches as I gaze into his dark, unfathomable eyes and see his mouth quirk upwards.

_He knows how this makes me feel. _

Just as I run one of my hands through his dark hair, the door opens yet again. Maybe I should have locked it. This time it's a bumbling, stick-thin assistant who turns bright red at our position. He stutters an indistinguishable apology and then retreats from the room.

Zach just laughs and then leans towards me again. His hands move from the table to the sides of my waist. Our lips barely touch before another knock interrupts. Zach pulls away and swears viciously – but quietly – in Farsi.

I peer around the side of him and see Lerner standing in the doorway. "Oh, don't mind me," he says, crossing his arms across his broad chest, grinning.

I roll my eyes and stand up from the table. "What do you need?" I ask, rather irritated.

Lerner jerks a thumb over his shoulder and replies in his deep voice, "Get showered, Morgan, and don't disobey me again."

"I didn't disobey you…"

"Don't be smart; be clean. Go."

Rolling my eyes, I spin to face Zach and mouth, _'Talk later.'_ He nods and pulls a small package from his pocket and places it in my own. Then I turn away and brush past Lerner, still tingling from his touch.

* * *

Later, as I lie alone in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable bed in a dark room, I gaze at the necklace Zach wrapped inside the package. It's beautiful, it's delicate, it's silver, and it's painfully familiar. My father gave me this necklace a long, long time ago, out of the blue. It was before he went MIA.

At the end of the thin chain there's a little two dimensional globe. My dad said it was there because I was his world, but if that was true, then he would never have left me. On the back of the globe a little '6' is engraved. I never understood why, but, in the words of my mother, _"There are _so _many things in this world you'll never understand, kiddo. But you will spend your life figuring as many of them out as you can."_

The thing is: _how on earth did Zach get it? _I locked it away safely in my most treasured jewellery box the day my mother and I received the news about my dad, until I finally wore it again one day as I accompanied my mum to the CIA headquarters and lost it somewhere along the way.

With questions flooding my mind, I find it absolutely impossible to sleep. Without much thought on the matter, I slide my feet out of bed and onto the rough carpet. It's a chilly night, so I pull on a grey cardigan and rub my hands together.

Thankfully there's no one in the hallways, so I'm not disturbed by anyone as I tip-toe through the silence, my hand clutched tightly around the necklace.

When I reach the door I want, I knock gently but don't wait for a reply. His room isn't as dark as mine, so I can see his sleeping form spread out on the bed, obviously having a rough night, too.

"Zach?" I whisper, causing him to jerk upright, fully alert.

"_Cammie_?" His face is in the shadows.

I walk slowly towards him and say, "I-I…Maybe we could talk now?"

"Sure," he replies, patting the mattress beside himself.

Not hesitating to get underneath the warmth, I slide in beside him and lie on my side. He copies my position and smiles gently. "I've missed you," he says, taking one of my hands in his own. "No matter what I thought you did, I missed you. Especially when I thought you'd died."

I cast my eyes downward. "It had to be done."

"Did it?" His tone makes me lift my gaze towards his. "Did it really? Or was that the easy way out? And what the heck is with this _Chris _guy?" Only, he didn't say _heck, _if you know what I mean.

Frowning, I reply, "He's my partner."

"Right… How long have—"

"We're not together."

Neither the shadows nor the fact that he's a spy can hide the relief on Zach face. That evident relief of his causes a wave of happiness to flood me.

"Oh." Zach's grip on my hand tightens ever so vaguely. "That's good."

As I bite back a smile, the reason why I creeped my way into Zach's room nudges itself to the front of my mind again. "But, Zach, I need you to tell me something." He stays silent, so I continue, "Where did you find the necklace that my father gave to me? It's been lost for _years_!"

I can tell he's reluctant to answer. "I have…sources. Can we not talk about this? Not right now, at least?"

Hesitantly, I agree. "Don't think I won't ask again."

"I wouldn't for a second." Zach laughs; a sound which fills me to the brim with love. "Do you want help putting it on?"

"Oh, uh, sure." I push myself into an upright position, sitting, and hand Zach the necklace, pulling off my cardigan all the while. He loops it gently around my neck, making sure the little globe at the front is facing the right way before fastening it at the back. Every single time our skin meets, shivers run down my spine.

"I really did miss you, Cammie." Even the way he says my name is amazing. It's like I'm a naïve teenage girl, giggling with my girlfriends over a crush.

"Ditto."

His hands brush my – finally – clean hair off the back of my neck and over one shoulder before his lips meet my skin. He kisses all the way down my neck and stops at my exposed shoulder. Zach spins me around so we're face to face, and I place my hand on his cheek.

When our lips touch, I get way more than fireworks and music and whatever else you're meant to get when the guy you love kisses you. Zach pulls me in close and rests a hand on my hair.

When we break apart, we're both smiling like crazy.

"I especially missed that," I tell him, breathless.

He laughs quietly. "Ditto."

* * *

**Oh dear. A month and a bit. I am awful, I really am. **

**I've come down with some sort of flu-migraine thing so I'm not exactly meant to be on the computer. Oh well. And may I just say that the improved fanfiction log-in bit is just odd. I'll get used to it. **

**Oh and I'm hoping this is the beta-ed version of this chapter. If not, I'll fix it later, seeing as I really cannot be bothered. Right now I just want a tissue and a warm blanket. **

**So, the amount of reviews I get for this chapter will be the total of zammie lip-locks in future. Just because I'm horrible like that. And because I'm desperate to know people are actually reading this rubbish ;]**

**Mhm. That's about it from me. No real interesting news. So if you've met the queen or something since the last time I updated, please do tell. I'm pumped for some interesting stories. Any birthdays? Any new pets? Anyone else sick? Mmkay.**

**I'm out. **

**~Jen**

**PMs are very welcomed. Hey, sniffling all day isn't any fun. Got any ideas? Review them or something because I'm running low. Tata.**


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